[P.  150 


PICKED   UP   SOME   OF   THE   SIIPvEDS " 


THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

BEING 

INCIDENTS  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  A  PLAIN  MAN 
WHO   TRIED  TO  DO  HIS  DUTY 


OCTAVE    THANET 


ILLUSTRATED   BY 
A,  B.  FROST  AND  CLIFFORD  CARLETON 


NEW     YORK 

HARPER    &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 
1897 


Copyright,  1897,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHKRS. 

All  rights  reserved. 


CONTENTS 


THE   MISSIONARY   SHERIFF J 

THE  CABINET  ORGAN 51 

HIS  DUTY 97 

THE  HYPNOTIST 131 

THE  NEXT  ROOM 157 

THE  DEFEAT  OF  AMOS  WICKLIFF    ....  217 


822588 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


"PICKED  UP  SOME  OF  THE  SHREDS"  ....  Frontispiece 

''TORE  THE  LETTER  INTO  PIECES"       .      .      .    Facing  p.      20 
THE   THANKSGIVING  BOX      ....  30 
' '  SHE    PAUSED    BEFORE    MRS.     SMITH'S     SEC 
TION "     46 

"SHE    LEANED     HER     SHABBY     ELBOWS     ON 

THE  GATE "      , 56 

"'SOMEBODY    THREW    THESE    THINGS    AT 

OUR  WINDOW  '" 70 

"  '  NOW,  BOYS,  LET'S  COME   AND  PLAY  ON 

THE   ORGAN " ?4 

"  '  THEY  HAVE  ENGAGED  ME'  '' .    .  94 

'HARNED  HID  HIS  FACE" 116 

"  'IT  WON'T  BE  SUCH  A  BIG  ONE  IF  THE 

DOOR  HOLDS  '"..., 126 

"'SHE  MUST  LOOK  AT  IT '" 146 

"  'HE'S  SCARED  NOW,  THE  COWARD'"  158 

"  'I'LL  ACT  AS  HIS  VALET'".     .....  162 

"  '  PLL   GIVE   THE    KITTY    SOMETHING    TO 

EAT'"    .  ..."          180 


THE  FAREWELL 


232 


THE   MISSIONARY   SHERIFF 


THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 


SHERIFF  WICKLIFF  leaned  out  of  his 
office  window,  the  better  to  watch  the  boy 
soldiers  march  down  the  street.  The 
huge  pile  of  stone  that  is  the  presumed  home  of 
Justice  for  the  county  stands  in  the  same  yard 
with  the  old  yellow  stone  jail.  The  court-house 
is  ornate  and  imposing,  although  a  hundred  ac 
tive  chimneys  daub  its  eaves  and  carvings,  but 
the  jail  is  as  plain  as  a  sledge-hammer.  Yet 
during  Sheriff  Wickliff's  administration,  while 
Joe  Raker  kept  jail  and  Mrs.  Raker  was  matron, 
window -gardens  brightened  the  grim  walls  all 
summer,  and  chrysanthemums  and  roses  bla 
zoned  the  black  bars  in  winter. 

Above  the  jail  the  street  is  a  pretty  street, 
with  trim  cottages  and  lawns  and  gardens ;  be 
low,  the  sky-lines  dwindle  ignobly  into  shabby 
one  and  two  story  wooden  shops  devoted  to  the 
humbler  handicrafts.  It  is  not  a  street  favored 


THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 
•       «        '      ' 
•      •«•••  *     "* 

-'  'by'  processions1;*  only  the  little  soldiers  of  the 
Orphans'  Home  Company  would  choose  to  tramp 
over  its  unkempt  macadam.  Good  reason  they 
had,  too,  since  thus  they  passed  the  sheriff's  office, 
and  it  was  the  sheriff  who  had  given  most  of  the 
money  for  their  uniforms,  and  their  drums  and 
fifes  outright. 

A  voice  at  the  sheriff's  elbow  caused  him  to 
turn. 

"Well,  Amos/'  said  his  deputy,  with  West 
ern  familiarity,  "getting  the  interest  on  your 
money  ?" 

Wickliff  smiled  as  he  unbent  his  great  frame ; 
he  was  six  feet  two  inches  in  height,  with  bones 
and  thews  to  match  his  stature.  A  stiff  black 
mustache,  curving  about  his  mouth  and  lifting 
as  he  smiled,  made  his  white  teeth  look  the 
whiter.  One  of  the  upper  teeth  was  crooked. 
That  angle  had  come  in  an  ugly  fight  (when  he 
was  a  special  officer  and  detective)  in  the  Chicago 
stock -yards,  he  having  to  hold  a  mob  at  bay, 
single-handed,  to  save  the  life  of  a  wounded 
policeman.  The  scar  seaming  his  jaw  and  neck 
belonged  to  the  time  that  he  captured  a  notori 
ous  gang  of  train-robbers.  He  brought  the  rob 
bers  in  —  that  is,  he  brought  their  bodies;  and 
"  That  scar  was  worth  three  thousand  dollars  to 
me,"  he  was  wont  to  say.  In  point  of  fact  it  was 


THE   MISSIONARY   SHERIFF  5 

worth  more,  because  he  had  invested  the  money 
so  advantageously  that,  thanks  to  it  and  the  sav 
ings  which  he  had  been  able  to  add,  in  spite  of 
his  free  hand  he  was  now  become  a  man  of  prop 
erty.  The  sheriffs  high  cheek-bones,  straight 
hair  (black  as  a  dead  coal),  and  narrow  black 
eyes  were  the  arguments  for  a  general  belief  that 
an  Indian  ancestor  lurked  somewhere  in  the  fo 
liage  of  his  genealogical  tree.  All  that  people 
really  knew  about  him  was  that  his  mother  died 
when  he  was  a  baby,  and  his  father,  about  the 
same  time,  was  killed  in  battle,  leaving  their  only 
child  to  drift  from  one  reluctant  protector  to 
another,  until  he  brought  up  in  the  Soldiers' 
Orphans7  Home  of  the  State.  If  the  sheriff's 
eyes  were  Indian,  Indians  may  have  very  gentle 
eyes.  He  turned  them  now  on  the  deputy  with 
a  smile. 

"Well,  Joe,  what's  up  ?"  said  he. 

"  The  lightning-rod  feller  wants  to  see  you,  as 
soon  as  you  come  back  to  the  jail,  he  says.  And 
here's  something  he  dropped  as  he  was  going  to 
his  room.  Don't  look  much  like  it  could  be  his 
mother.  Must  have  prigged  it." 

The  sheriff  examined  the  photograph,  an  or 
dinary  cabinet  card.  The  portrait  was  that  of  a 
woman,  pictured  with  the  relentless  frankness  of 
a  rural  photographer's  camera.  Every  sad  line 


6  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

in  the  plain  elderly  face,  every  wrinkle  in  the 
ill-fitting  silk  gown,  showed  with  a  brutal  dis 
tinctness,  and  somehow  made  the  picture  more 
pathetic.  The  woman's  hair  was  gray  and  thin  ; 
her  eyes,  which  were  dark,  looked  straight  for 
ward,  and  seemed  to  meet  the  sheriffs  gaze. 
They  had  no  especial  beauty  of  form,  but  they, 
as  well  as  the  mouth,  had  an  expression  of  wist 
ful  kindliness  that  fixed  his  eyes  on  them  for  a 
full  minute.  He  sighed  as  he  dropped  his  hand. 
Then  he  observed  that  there  was  writing  on  the 
reverse  side  of  the  carte,  and  lifted  it  again  to 
read. 

In  a  neat  cramped  hand  was  written  : 

"To  Eddy,  from  Mother.  Feb.  21,  1889. 

"The  Lord  bless  thee  and  keep  thee.  The  Lord  make 
His  face  to  shine  upon  thee,  and  be  gracious  unto  thee ; 
the  Lord  lift  up  His  countenance  upon  thee,  and  give  thee 
peace." 

Wickliff  put  the  carte  in  his  pocket. 

"That's  just  the  kind  of  mother  I'd  like  to 
have,"  said  he;  "awful  nice  and  good,  and  not 
so  fine  she'd  be  ashamed  of  me.  And  to  think 
Othiml" 

"  He's  an  awful  slick  one,"  assented  the  deputy, 
cordially.  "Two  years  we've  been  ayfter  him. 
New  games  all  the  time ;  but  the  lightning-rods 


THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 


ain't  in  it  with  this  last  scheme — working  hisself 
off  as  a  Methodist  parson  on  the  road  to  a  job, 
and  stopping  all  night,  and  then  the  runaway 
couple  happening  in,  and  that  poor  farmer  and 
his  wife  so  excited  and  interested,  and  of  course 
they'd  witness  and  sign  the  certificate ;  wisht  I'd 
seen  them  when  they  found  out  I" 

"  They  gave  'em  cake  and  some  currant  wine, 
too." 

"  That's  just  like  women.  Say,  I  didn't  think 
the  girl  was  much  to  brag  on  for  looks — " 

"  Got  a  kinder  way  with  her,  though,"  "\Vick- 
liff  struck  in.  "Depend  on  it,  Joseph,  the  most 
dangerous  of  them  all  are  the  homely  girls  with 
a  way  to  them.  A  man's  off  his  guard  with 
them ;  he's  sorry  for  them  not  being  pretty,  and 
being  so  nice  and  humble ;  and  before  he  knows 
it  they're  winding  him  'round  their  finger." 

"  I  didn't  know  you  was  so  much  of  a  philoso 
pher,  Amos,"  said  the  deputy,  admiring  him. 

"  It  ain't  me,  Joe  ;  it's  the  business.  Being  a 
philosopher,  I  take  it,  ain't  much  more  than  see 
ing  things  with  the  paint  oif ;  and  there's  noth 
ing  like  being  a  detective  to  get  the  paint  off. 
It's  a  great  business  for  keeping  a  man  straight, 
too,  seeing  the  consequences  of  wickedness  so 
constantly,  especially  fool  wickedness  that  gets 
found  out.  Well,  Joe,  if  this  lady"— touching 


8  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

his  breast  pocket — "is  that  guy's  mother,,  I'm 
awful  sorry  for  her,  for  I  know  she  tried  to 
train  him  right.  I'll  go  over  and  find  out,  I 
guess." 

So  saying,  and  quite  unconscious  of  the  ap 
proving  looks  of  his  subordinate  (for  he  was  a 
simple-minded,  modest  man,  who  only  spoke  out 
of  the  fulness  of  his  heart),  the  sheriff  walked 
over  to  the  jail. 

The  corridor  into  which  the  cells  of  the  un- 
convicted  prisoners  opened  was  rather  full  to 
day.  As  the  sheriff  entered,  every  one  greeted 
him,  even  the  sullen-browed  man  talking  with  a 
sobbing  woman  through  the  bars,  and  every  one 
smiled.  He  nodded  to  all,  but  only  spoke  to  the 
visitor.  He  said,  "  I  guess  he  didn't  do  it  this 
time,  Lizzie  ;  he  won't  be  in  long." 

"  That's  what  I  bin  tellin'  her,"  growled  the 
man,  "and  she  won't  believe  me;  I  told  her  I 
promised  you — " 

"And  God  A'mighty  bless  you,  sheriff,  for 
what  you  done  !"  the  woman  wailed.  The  sheriff 
had  some  ado  to  escape  from  her  benedictions 
politely;  but  he  got  away,  and  knocked  at  the 
door  of  the  last  cell  on  the  tier.  The  inmate 
opened  the  door  himself. 

He  was  a  small  man,  who  still  was  wearing  the 
clerical  habit  of  his  last  criminal  masquerade ; 


THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF  9 

and  his  face  carried  out  the  suggestion  of  his 
costume,  being  an  actor's  face,  not  only  in  the 
clean-shaven  cheeks  and  lips,  but  in  the  flexibil 
ity  of  the  features  and  the  unconscious  alertness 
of  gaze.  He  was  fair  of  skin,  and  his  light- 
brown  hair  was  worn  off  his  head  at  the  temples. 
His  eyes  were  fine,  well  shaped,  of  a  beautiful 
violet  color,  and  an  extremely  pleasant  expres 
sion.  He  looked  like  a  mere  boy  across  the  room 
in  the  shadow,  but  as  he  advanced,  certain  deep 
lines  about  his  mouth  displayed  themselves  and 
raised  his  age.  The  sunlight  showed  that  he  was 
thin ;  he  was  haggard  the  instant  he  ceased  to 
smile.  With  a  very  good  manner  he  greeted  the 
sheriff,  to  whom  he  proffered  the  sole  chair  of 
the  apartment. 

"  Guess  the  bed  will  hold  me,"  said  the  sheriff, 
testing  his  words  by  sitting  down  on  the  white- 
covered  iron  bedstead.  i(  Well,  I  hear  you  want 
ed  to  see  me." 

"  Yes,  sir.  I  want  to  get  my  money  that  you 
took  away  from  me." 

"  Well,  I  guess  you  can't  have  it."  The  sheriff 
spoke  with  a  smile,  but  his  black  eyes  narrowed 
a  little.  ' '  I  guess  the  court  will  have  to  decide 
first  if  that  ain't  old  man  Goodrich's  money  that 
you  got  from  the  note  he  supposed  was  a  mar 
riage  certificate.  I  guess  you  better  not  put  any 


10  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

hopes  on  that  money,  Mr.  Paisley.  Wasn't  that 
the  name  you  gave  me  ?" 

"  Paisley  '11  do/7  said  the  other  man,  indiffer 
ently.  "  What  became  of  my  friend  ?" 

"The  sheriff  of  Hardin  County  wanted  the 
man,  and  the  lady — well,  the  lady  is  here  board 
ing  with  me." 

"  Going  to  squeal  ?" 

"  Going  to  tell  all  she  knows." 

Paisley's  hand  went  up  to  his  mouth ;  he 
changed  color.  "It's  like  her,"  he  muttered — 
"  oh,  it's  just  like  her !"  And  he  added  a  vil- 
lanous  epithet. 

"None  of  that  talk,"  said  Wickliff. 

The  man  had  jumped  up  and  was  pacing  his 
narrow  space,  fighting  against  a  climbing  rage. 
"You  see,"  he  cried,  unable  to  contain  himself 
— "you  see,  what  makes  me  so  mad  is  now  I've 
got  to  get  my  mother  to  help  me — and  I'd  rather 
take  a  licking  !" . 

"I  should  think  you  would,"  said  Wickliff, 
dryly.  "Say,  this  your  mother?"  He  handed 
him  the  photograph,  the  written  side  upward. 

"It  came  in  a  Bible,"  explained  Paisley,  with 
an  embarrassed  air. 

"  Your  mother  rich  ?" 

"She  can  raise  the  money." 

"Meaning,  I  expect,  that  she   can   mortgage 


THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF  11 

her  house  and  lot.  Look  here,  Smith,,  this  ain't 
the  first  time  your  ma  has  sent  you  money,  but 
if  I  was  you  I'd  have  the  last  time  stay  the  last. 
She  don't  look  equal  to  much  more  hard  work." 

"My  name's  Paisley,  if  you  please/'  returned 
the  prisoner,  stolidly,  "and  I  can  take  care  of 
my  own  mother.  If  she's  lent  me  money  I  have 
paid  it  back.  This  is  only  for  bail,  to  deposit— 

"  There  is  the  chance,"  interrupted  Wickliff, 
"  of  your  skipping.  Now,  I  tell  you,  I  like  the 
looks  of  your  mother,  and  I  don't  mean  she  shall 
run  any  risks.  So,  if  you  do  get  money  from  her, 
I  shall  personally  look  out  you  don't  forfeit  your 
bail.  Besides,  court  is  in  session  now,  so  the 
chances  are  you  wouldn't  more  than  get  the 
money  before  it  would  be  your  turn.  See  ?" 

"Anyhow  I've  got  to  have  a  lawyer." 

"  Can't  see  why,  young  feller.  I'll  give  you  a 
straight  tip.  There  ain't  enough  law  in  Iowa  to 
get  you  out  of  this  scrape.  We've  got  the  cinch 
on  you,  and  there  ain't  any  possible  squirming 
out." 

"  So  you  say ;"  the  sneer  was  a  little  forced  ; 
"Fve  heard  of  your  game  before.  Nice,  kind 
officers,  ready  to  advise  a  man  and  pump  him 
dry,  and  witness  against  him  afterwards.  I  ain't 
that  kind  of  a  sucker,  Mr.  Sheriff." 

"  Nor  I  ain't  that  kind  of  an  officer,  Mr.  Smith. 


12  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

You'd  ought  to  know  about  my  reputation  by 
this  time." 

"They  say  you're  square/'  the  prisoner  ad 
mitted  ;  "  but  you  ain't  so  stuck  on  me  as  to 
care  a  damn  whether  I  go  over  the  road  ;  expect 
you'd  want  to  send  me  for  the  trouble  I've  given 
you/'  and  he  grinned.  "Well,  what  are  you 
after  ?" 

"Helping  your  mother,  young  feller.  I  had 
a  mother  myself." 

"It  ain't  uncommon." 

"Maybe  a  mother  like  mine — and  yours — is, 
though." 

The  prisoner's  eyes  travelled  down  to  the  face 
on  the  carte.  "That's  right,"  he  said,  with  an 
other  ring  in  his  voice.  "I  wouldn't  mind  half 
so  much  if  I  could  keep  my  going  to  the  pen  from 
her.  She's  never  found  out  about  me." 

"How  much  family  you  got?"  said  Wickliff, 
thoughtfully. 

"  Just  a  mother.  I  ain't  married.  There  was 
a  girl,  my  sister — good  sort  too,  'nuff  better'n 
me.  She  used  to  be  a  clerk  in  the  store,  type 
writer,  bookkeeper,  general  utility,  you  know. 
My  position  in  the  first  place  ;  and  when  I — well, 
resigned,  they  gave  it  to  her.  She  helped  moth 
er  buy  the  place.  Two  years  ago  she  died.  You 
may  believe  me  or  not,  but  I  would  have  gone 


THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF  13 

back  home  then  and  run  straight  if  it  hadn't 

been  for  Mame.  I  would,  by !  I  had  five 

hundred  dollars  then,  and  I  was  going  back  to 
give  every  damned  cent  of  it  to  ma,  tell  her  to 
put  it  into  the  bakery—" 

"  That  how  she  makes  a  living  ?" 

«  Yes — little  two-by-four  bakery — oh,  Fm  giv 
ing  you  straight  goods — makes  pies  and  cakes 
and  bread — good,  too,  you  bet — makes  it  herself. 
Ruth  Graves,  who  lives  round  the  corner,  comes 
in  and  helps — keeps  the  books,  and  tends  shop 
busy  times  ;  tends  the  oven  too,  I  guess.  She 
was  a  great  friend  of  Ellie's — and  mine.  She's 
a  real  good  girl.  Well,  I  didn't  get  mother's 
letters  till  it  was  too  late,  and  I  felt  bad ;  I  had 
a  mind  to  go  right  down  to  Fairport  and  go  in 
with  ma.  That — she  stopped  it.  Got  me  off  on 
a  tear  somehow,  and  by  the  time  I  was  sober 
again  the  money  was  'most  all  gone.  I  sent  what 
was  left  off  to  ma,  and  I  went  on  the  road  again 
myself.  But  she's  the  devil." 

"  That  the  time  you  hit  her  ?" 

The  prisoner  nodded.  "  Oughtn't  to,  of  course. 
Wasn't  brought  up  that  way.  My  father  was  a 
Methodist  preacher,  and  a  good  one.  But  I  tell 
you  the  coons  that  say  you  never  must  hit  a 
woman  don't  know  anything  about  that  sort  of 
women  ;  there  ain't  nothing  on  earth  so  infernal- 


14  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

ly  exasperating  as  a  woman.  They  can  mad  you 
worse  than  forty  men." 

It  was  the  sheriff's  turn  to  nod,  which  he  did 
gravely,  with  even  a  glimmer  of  sympathy  in  his 
mien. 

"Well,  she  never  forgave  you,"  said  he;  "she's 
had  it  in  for  you  since." 

"And  she  knows  I  won't  squeal,  'cause  I'd 
have  to  give  poor  Ben  away,"  said  the  prisoner ; 
"  but  I  tell  you,  sheriff,  she  was  at  the  bottom 
of  the  deviltry  every  time,  and  she  managed  to 
bag  the  best  part  of  the  swag,  too." 

"I  dare  say.  Well,  to  come  back  to  business, 
the  question  with  you  is  how  to  keep  these  here 
misfortunes  of  yours  from  your  mother,  ain't  it  ?" 

"Of  course." 

"  Well,  the  best  plan  for  you  is  to  plead  guilty, 
showing  you  don't  mean  to  give  the  court  any 
more  trouble.  Tell  the  judge  you  are  sick  of 
your  life,  and  going  to  quit.  You  are,  ain't 
you  ?"  the  sheriff  concluded,  simply ;  and  the 
swindler,  after  an  instant's  hesitation,  answered  : 

"  Damned  if  I  won't,  if  I  can  get  a  job  !" 

"  Well,  that  admitted  "—the  sheriff  smoothed 
his  big  knees  gently  as  he  talked,  his  mild  atten 
tive  eyes  fixed  on  the  prisoner's  nervous  pres 
ence— "that  admitted,  best  plan  is  for  you  to 
plead  guilty,  and  maybe  we  can  fix  it  so's  you 


THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF  15 

will  be  sentenced  to  jail  instead  of  the  pen.  Then 
we  can  keep  it  from  your  mother  easy.  Write 
her  3rou've  got  a  job  here  in  this  town,  and  have 
your  letters  sent  to  my  care.  I'll  get  you  some 
thing  to  do.  She'll  never  suspect  that  you  are 
the  notorious  Ned  Paisley.  And  it  ain't  likely 
you  go  home  often  enough  to  make  not  going 
awkward." 

"  I  haven't  been  home  in  four  years.  But  see 
here  :  how  long  am  I  likely  to  get  ?" 

The  sheriff  looked  at  him,  at  the  hollow  cheeks 
and  sunken  eyes  and  narrow  chest— all  so  cruelly 
declared  in  the  sunshine  ;  and  unconsciously  he 
modulated  his  voice  when  he  spoke. 

"  I  wouldn't  worry  about  that,  if  I  was  you. 
You  need  a  rest.  You  are  run  down  pretty  low. 
You  ain't  rugged  enough  for  the  life  you've  been 
leading." 

The  prisoner's  eyes  strayed  past  the  grating 
to  the  green  hills  and  the  pleasant  gardens,  where 
some  children  were  playing.  The  sheriff  did  not 
move.  There  was  as  little  sensibility  in  his  impas 
sive  mask  as  in  a  wooden  Indian's  ;  but  behind 
the  trained  apathy  was  a  real  compassion.  He 
was  thinking.  "  The  boy  don't  look  like  he  had 
a  year's  life  in  him.  I  bet  he  knows  it  himself. 
And  when  he  stares  that  way  out  of  the  win 
dow  he's  thinking  he  ain't  never  going  to  be 


16  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

foot-loose  in  the  sun  again.  Kinder  tough,  I 
call  it." 

The  young  man's  eyes  suddenly  met  his. 
"  Well,  it's  no  great  matter,  I  guess,"  said  he. 
"I'll  do  it.  But  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  make 
out  why  you  are  taking  so  much  trouble." 

He  was  surprised  at  Wickliff's  reply.  It  was, 
"Come  on  down  stairs  with  me,  and  I'll  show 
you." 

"You  mean  it?" 

"  Yes  ;  go  ahead." 

"  You  want  my  parole  not  to  cut  and  run  ?" 

"Just  as  you  like  about  that.  Better  not  try 
any  fooling." 

The  prisoner  uttered  a  short  laugh,  glancing 
from  his  own  puny  limbs  to  the  magnificent 
muscles  of  the  officer. 

( '  Straight  ahead,  after  you're  out  of  the  cor 
ridor,  down -stairs,  and  turn  to  the  right,"  said 
Wickliff. 

Silently  the  prisoner  followed  his  directions, 
and  when  they  had  descended  the  stairs  and 
turned  to  the  right,  the  sheriff's  hand  pushed 
beneath  his  elbow  and  opened  the  door  before 
them.  "My  rooms,"  said  Wickliif.  "Being  a 
single  man,  it's  handier  for  me  living  in  the 
jail."  The  rooms  were  furnished  with  the  un- 
chastened  gorgeousness  of  a  Pullman  sleeper,  the 


THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF  17 

brilliant  hues  of  a  Brussels  carpet  on  the  floor, 
blue  plush  at  the  windows  and  011  the  chairs. 
The  walls  were  hung  with  the  most  expensive 
gilt  paper  that  the  town  could  furnish  (after  all, 
it  was  a  modest  price  per  roll),  and  against  the 
gold,  photographs  of  the  district  judges  assumed 
a  sinister  dignity.  There  was  also  a  photograph 
of  the  court-house,  and  one  of  the  jail,  and  a 
model  in  bas-relief  of  the  Capitol  at  Des  Moines  ; 
but  more  prominent  than  any  of  these  were  two 
portraits  opposite  the  windows.  They  were  oil- 
paintings,  elaborately  framed,  and  they  had  cost 
so  much  that  the  sheriff  rested  happily  content 
that  they  must  be  well  painted.  Certainly  the 
artist  had  not  recorded  impressions  ;  rather  he 
seemed  to  have  worked  with  a  microscope,  not 
slighting  an  eyelash.  One  of  the  portraits  was 
that  of  a  stiff  and  stern  young  man  in  a  soldier's 
uniform.  He  was  dark,  and  had  eyes  and  feat 
ures  like  the  sheriff.  The  other  was  the  portrait 
of  a  young  girl.  In  the  original  daguerreotype 
from  which  the  artist  worked  the  face  was  come 
ly,  if  not  pretty,  and  the  innocence  in  the  eyes 
and  the  timid  smile  made  it  winning.  The  ar 
tist  had  enlarged  the  eyes  and  made  the  mouth 
smaller,  and  bestowed  (with  the  most  amiable  in 
tentions)  a  complexion  of  hectic  brilliancy ;  but 
there  still  remained,  in  spite  of  paint,  a  flicker  of 


18  THE     MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

the  old  touching  expression.  Between  the  two 
canvases  hung  a  framed  letter.  It  was  labelled 
in  bold  Roman  script,  ' '  Letter  of  Capt.  K.  T. 
Manley,"  and  a  glance  showed  the  reader  that  it 
was  the  description  of  a  battle  to  a  friend.  One 
sentence  was  underlined.  "  We  also  lost  Private 
A.  T.  Wickliff,  killed  in  the  charge — a  good  man 
who  could  always  be  depended  on  to  do  his  duty." 
The  sheriff  guided  his  bewildered  visitor  oppo 
site  these  portraits  and  lifted  his  hand  above  the 
other's  shoulder.  "You  see  them?"  said  he. 
"  They're  my  father  and  mother.  You  see  that 
letter  ?  It  was  wrote  by  my  father's  old  captain 
and  sent  to  me.  What  he  says  about  my  father 
is  everything  that  I  know.  But  it's  enough. 
He  was  'a  good  man  who  could  always  be  de 
pended  on  to  do  his  duty.'  You  can't  say  no  more 
of  the  President  of  the  United  States.  I've  had 
a  pretty  tough  time  of  it  in  my  own  life,  as  a 
man's  got  to  have  who  takes  up  my  line ;  but 
I've  tried  to  live  so  my  father  needn't  be  ashamed 
of  me.  That  other  picture  is  my  mother.  I 
don't  know  nothing  about  her,  nothing  at  all; 
and  I  don't  need  to — except  those  eyes  of  hers. 
There's  a  look  someway  about  your  mother's  eyes 
like  mine.  Maybe  it's  only  the  look  one  good 
woman  has  like  another  ;  but  whatever  it  is,  your 
mother  made  me  think  of  mine.  She's  the  kind 


THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF  19 

of  mother  I'd  like  to  have ;  and  if  I  can  help  it, 
she  shaVt  know  her  son's  in  the  penitentiary. 
Now  come  on  back." 

As  silently  as  he  had  gone,  the  prisoner  fol 
lowed  the  sheriff  back  to  his  cell.  "  Good-bye, 
Paisley,"  said  the  sheriff,  at  the  door. 

"  Good-bye,  sir;  I'm  much  obliged,"  said  the 
prisoner.  Not  another  word  was  said. 

That  evening,  however,  good  Mrs.  Kaker  told 
the  sheriff  that,  to  her  mind,  if  ever  a  man  was 
struck  with  death,  that  new  young  fellow  was ; 
and  he  had  been  crying,  too ;  his  eyes  were  all  red. 

"He  needs  to  cry,"  was  all  the  comfort  that 
the  kind  soul  received  from  the  sheriff,  the  cold 
remark  being  accompanied  by  what  his 'familiars 
called  his  Indian  scowl. 

Nevertheless,  he  did  his  utmost  for  the  prisoner 
as  a  quiet  intercessor,  and  his  merciful  prophecy 
was  accomplished  —  Edgar  S.  Paisley  was  per 
mitted  to  serve  out  his  sentence  in  the  jail  in 
stead  of  the  State  prison.  His  state  of  health 
had  something  to  do  with  the  judge's  clemency, 
and  the  sheriff  could  not  but  suspect  that,  in  his 
own  phrase,  "  Paisley  played  his  cough  and  his 
hollow  cheeks  for  all  they  were  worth." 

"But  that's  natural,"  he  observed  to  Raker, 
"and  he's  doing  it  partially  for  the  old  lady. 
Well,  I'll  try  to  give  her  a  quiet  spell." 


20  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 


/'  Raker  responds,  dubiously,  "but  he'll 
be  at  his  old  games  the  minute  he  gits  out." 

"You  don't  suppose"  —  the  sheriff  speaks  with 
a  certain  embarrassment  —  "you  don't  suppose 
there'd  be  any  chance  of  really  reforming  him,  so 
as  he'd  stick  ?  —  he  ain't  likely  to  live  long." 

"Nah/'  says  the  unbelieving  deputy  ;  "he's  a 
deal  too  slick  to  be  reformed." 

The  sheriff's  pucker  of  his  black  brows  and 
his  slow  nod  might  have  meant  anything.  Really 
he  was  saying  to  himself  (Amos  was  a  dogged 
fellow)  :  "  Don't  care  ;  I'm  going  to  try.  I  am 
sure  ma  would  want  me  to.  I  ain't  a  very  hefty 
missionary,  but  if  there  is  such  a  thing  as  club 
bing  a  man  half-way  decent,  and  I  think  there  is, 
I'll  get  him  that  way.  Poor  old  lady,  she  looked 
so  unhappy  !" 

During  the  trial  Paisley  was  too  excited  and 
dejected  to  write  to  his  mother.  But  the  day 
after  he  received  his  sentence  the  sheriff  found 
him  finishing  a  large  sheet  of  foolscap. 

It  contained  a  detailed  and  vivid  description  of 
the  reasons  why  he  had  left  a  mythical  grocery 
firm,  and  described  with  considerable  humor  the 
mythical  boarding-house  where  he  was  waiting 
for  something  to  turn  up.  It  was  very  well  done, 
and  he  expected  a  smile  from  the  sheriff.  The 
red  mottled  his  pale  cheeks  when  Wickliff,  with 


"TORE   THE  LETTER   INTO  PIECES" 


THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF  21 

his  blackest  frown,  tore  the  letter  into  pieces, 
which  he  stuffed  into  his  pocket. 

"Yon  take  a  damned  ungentlemanly  advantage 
of  your  position/7  fumed  Paisley. 

"I  shall  take  more  advantage  of  it  if  you  give 
me  any  sass,"  returned  Wickliff,  calmly.  "  Now 
set  down  and  listen."  Paisley,  after  one  helpless 
glare,  did  sit  down.  "  I  believe  you  fairly  revel 
in  lying.  I  don't.  That's  where  we  differ.  I 
think  lies  are  always  liable  to  come  home  to 
roost,  and  I  like  to  have  the  flock  as  small  as 
possible.  Now  you  write  that  you  are  here,  and 
you're  helping  me.  You  ain't  getting  much 
wages,  but  they  will  be  enough  to  keep  you — 
these  hard  times  any  job  is  better  than  none. 
And  you  can  add  that  you  don't  want  any  money 
.from  her.  Your  other  letter  sorter  squints  like 
you  did.  You  can  say  you  are  boarding  with  a 
very  nice  lady  —  that's  Mrs.  Eaker  —  everything 
very  clean,  and  the  table  plain  but  abundant. 
Address  you  in  care  of  Sheriff  Amos  T.  Wickliff. 
How's  that  ?" 

Paisley's  anger  had  ebbed  away.  Either  from 
policy  or  some  other  motive  he  was  laughing 
now.  "  It's  not  nearly  so  interesting  in  a  liter 
ary  point  of  view,  you  know,"  said  he,  "but  I 
guess  it  will  be  easier  not  to  have  so  many 
things  to  remember.  And  you're  right ;  I 


22  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

didn't  mean  to  hint  for  money,  but  it  did  look 
like  it." 

"  He  did  mean  to  hint/'  thought  the  sheriff, 
"but  he's  got  some  sense."  The  letter  finally 
submitted  was  a  masterpiece  in  its  way.  This 
time  the  sheriff  smiled,  though  grimly.  He  also 
gave  Paisley  a  cigar. 

Eegularly  the  letters  to  Mrs.  Smith  were  sub 
mitted  to  Wickliff.  Eaker  never  thought  of 
reading  them.  The  replies  came  with  a  pathetic 
promptness.  "  That's  from  your  ma,"  said  Wick 
liff,  when  the  first  letter  came  —  Paisley  was  at 
the  jail  ledgers  in  the  sheriff's  room,  as  it  hap 
pened,  directly  beneath  the  portraits  —  "you 
better  read  it  first." 

Paisley  read  it  twice  ;  then  he  turned  and 
handed  it  to  the  sheriff,  with  a  half  apology. 
"  My  mother  talks  a  good  deal  better  than  she 
writes.  Women  are  naturally  interested  in  petty 
things,  you  know.  Besides,  I  used  to  be  fond 
of  the  old  dog ;  that's  why  she  writes  so  much 
about  him." 

"  I  have  a  dog  myself,"  growled  the  sheriff. 
"Your  mother  writes  a  beautiful  letter."  His 
eyes  were  already  travelling  down  the  cheap  thin 
note-paper,  folded  at  the  top.  "I  know,"  Mrs. 
Smith  wrote,  in  her  stiff,  careful  hand — "I  know 
you  will  feel  bad,  Eddy,  to  hear  that  dear  old 


THE    MISSIONARY   SHERIFF  23 

Rowdy  is  gone.  Your  letter  came  the  night  be 
fore  he  died.  Ruth  was  over,  and  I  read  it  out 
loud  to  her  ;  and  when  I  came  to  that  part  where 
you  sent  your  love  to  him,  it  seemed  like  he 
understood,  he  wagged  his  tail  so  knowing.  You 
know  how  fond  of  you  he  always  was.  All  that 
evening  he  played  round — more  than  usual — and 
I'm  so  glad  we  both  petted  him,  for  in  the  morn 
ing  we  found  him  stiff  and  cold  on  the  landing 
of  the  stairs,  in  his  favorite  place.  I  don't  think 
he  could  have  suffered  any,  he  looked  so  peace 
ful.  Ruth  and  I  made  a  grave  for  him  in  the 
garden,  under  the  white  rose  tree.  Ruth  digged 
the  grave,  and  she  painted  a  Kennedy's  cracker- 
box,  and  we  wrapped  him  up  in  white  cotton 
cloth.  I  cried,  and  Ruth  cried  too,  when  we 
laid  him  away.  Somehow  it  made  me  long  so 
much  more  to  see  you.  If  I  sent  you  the  money, 
don't  you  think  you  could  come  home  for  Christ 
mas  ?  Wouldn't  your  employer  let  you  if  he 
knew  your  mother  had  not  seen  you  for  four 
years,  and  you  are  all  the  child  she  has  got  ? 
But  I  don't  want  you  to  neglect  your  business." 
The  few  words  of  affection  that  followed  were 
not  written  so  firmly  as  the  rest.  The  sheriff 
would  not  read  them ;  he  handed  the  letter  back 
to  Paisley,  and  turned  his  Indian  scowl  on  the 
back  of  the  latter's  shapely  head. 


24  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

Paisley  was  staring  at  the  columns  of  the  page 
before  him.  "  Rowdy  was  my  dog  when  I  was 
courting  Ruth/'  he  said.  "  I  was  engaged  to  her 
once.  I  suppose  mother  thinks  of  that.  Poor 
Rowdy  !  the  night  I  ran  away  he  followed  me, 
and  I  had  to  whip  him  back." 

"  Oh,  you  ran  away  ?" 

"Oh  yes;  the  old  story.  Trusted  clerk. 
Meant  to  return  the  money.  It  wasn't  very 
much.  But  it  about  cleaned  mother  out.  Then 
she  started  the  bakery/' 

"  You  pay  your  ma  back  ?" 

"Yes, I  did." 

"That's  a  lie." 

"  What  do  you  ask  a  man  such  questions  for, 
then  ?  Do  you  think  it's  pleasant  admitting 
what  a  dirty  dog  you've  been  ?  Oh,  damn  you  !" 

"You  do  see  it,  then,"  said  the  sheriff,  in  a 
very  pleasant,  gentle  tone ;  "  that's  one  good 
thing.  For  you  have  got  to  reform,  Ned  ;  I'm 
going  to  give  your  mother  a  decent  boy.  Well, 
what  happened  then  ?  Girl  throw  you  over  ?" 

"  Why,  I  ran  straight  for  a  while,"  said  Paisley, 
furtively  wiping  first  one  eye  and  then  the  other 
with  a  finger;  "there  wasn't  any  scandal.  Ruth 
stuck  by  me,  and  a  married  sister  of  hers  (who 
didn't  know)  got  her  husband  to  give  me  a  place. 
I  was  doing  all  right,  and — and  sending  home 


THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF  25 

money  to  ma,  and  I  would  have  been  all  right 
now,  if — if — I  hadn't  met  Mame,  and  she  made 
a  crazy  fool  of  me.  Then  Ruth  shook  me.  Oh, 
I  ain't  blaming  her  !  It  was  hearing  about 
Mame.  But  after  that  I  just  went  a-flying  to 
the  devil.  Now  you  know  why  I  wanted  to  see 
Mame." 

"You  wanted  to  kill  her,"  said  the  sheriff, 
"or  you  think  you  did.  But  you  couldn't; 
she'd  have  talked  you  over.  Still,  I  thought  I 
wouldn't  risk  it.  You  know  she's  gone  now  ?" 

"I  supposed  she'd  be,  now  the  trial's  over." 
In  a  minute  he  added:  "I'm  glad  I  didn't 
touch  her ;  mother  would  have  had  to  know 
that.  Look  here  ;  how  am  I  going  to  get  over 
that  invitation  ?" 

"Pll  trust  you  for  that  lie,"  said  Wickliff, 
sauntering  off. 

Paisley  wrote  that  he  would  not  take  his 
mother's  money.  When  he  could  come  home 
on  his  own  money  he  would  gladly.  He  wrote 
a  long  affectionate  letter,  which  the  sheriff  read, 
and  handed  back  with  the  dry  comment,  "'That 
will  do,  I  guess." 

But  he  gave  Paisley  a  brier-wood  pipe  and  a 
pound  of  Yale  Mixture  that  afternoon. 

The  correspondence  threw  some  side-lights  on 
Paisley's  past. 


26  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

"YouVe  got  to  write  your  ma  every  week/' 
announced  Wickliff,  when  the  day  came  round. 

"  Why,  I  haven't  written  once  a  month." 

"  Probably  not,  but  you  have  got  to  write  once 
a  week  now.  Your  mother  '11  get  used  to  it.  I 
should  think  you'd  be  glad  to  do  the  only  thing 
you  can  for  the  mother  that's  worked  her  fingers 
off  for  you." 

"I  am  glad,"  said  Paisley,  sullenly. 

He  never  made  any  further  demur.  He  wrote 
very  good  letters  ;  and  more  and  more,  as  the 
time  passed,  he  grew  interested  in  the  cor 
respondence.  Meanwhile  he  began  to  acquire 
(quite  unsuspected  by  the  sheriff)  a  queer  re 
spect  for  that  personage.  The  sheriff  was  pop 
ular  among  the  prisoners ;  perhaps  the  general 
sentiment  was  voiced  by  one  of  them,  who  ex 
claimed,  one  day,  after  his  visit,  "  Well,  I  never 
did  see  a  man  as  had  killed  so  many  men  put  on 
so  little  airs  I" 

Paisley  began  his  acquaintance  with  a  con 
tempt  for  the  slow -moving  intellect  that  he 
attributed  to  his  sluggish-looking  captor.  He 
felt  the  superiority  of  his  own  better  education. 
It  was  grateful  to  his  vanity  to  sneer  in  secret 
at  Wickliff's  slips  in  grammar  or  information. 
And  presently  he  had  opportunity  to  indulge  his 
humor  in  this  respect,  for  Wickliff  began  lend- 


THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF  27 

ing  him  books.  The  jail  library,  as  a  rule,  was 
managed  by  Mrs.  Raker.  She  was,  she  used  to 
say,  "a  great  reader,"  and  dearly  loved  "a  nice 
story  that  made  you  cry  all  the  way  through  and 
ended  right."  Her  taste  was  catholic  in  fiction 
(she  never  read  anything  else),  and  her  favorites 
were  Mrs.  Southworth,  Charles  Dickens,  and 
Walter  Scott.  The  sheriff's  own  reading  seldom 
strayed  beyond  the  daily  papers,  but  with  the 
aid  of  a  legal  friend  he  had  selected  some  stand 
ard  biographies  and  histories  to  add  to  the  sin 
gular  conglomeration  of  fiction  and  religion  sent 
to  the  jail  by  a  charitable  public.  On  Paisley's 
request  for  reading,  the  sheriff  went  to  Mrs. 
Raker.  She  promptly  pulled  Islimael  Worth,  or 
Out  of  the  Depths,  from  the  shelf.  "  It's  beauti 
ful,"  says  she,  "and  when  he  gits  through  with 
that  he  can  have  the  Pickwick  Papers  to  cheer 
him  up.  Only  I  kinder  hate  to  lend  that  book 
to  the  prisoners ;  there's  so  much  about  good 
eatin'  in  it,  it  makes  'em  dissatisfied  with  the 
table." 

"  He's  got  to  have  something  improving,  too," 
says  the  sheriff.  "I  guess  the  history  of  the 
United  States  will  do ;  you've  read  the  others, 
and  know  they're  all  right.  Fll  run  through 
this." 

He  told  Paisley  the  next  morning  that  he  had 


THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 


sat  np  almost  all  night  reading,  he  was  so  afraid 
that  enough  of  the  thirteen  States  wouldn't  ratify 
the  Constitution.  This  was  only  one  of  the  art 
less  comments  that  tickled  Paisley.  Yet  he  soon 
began  to  notice  the  sheriff's  keenness  of  observa 
tion,  and  a  kind  of  work-a-day  sense  that  served 
him  well.  He  fell  to  wondering,  during  those 
long  nights  when  his  cough  kept  him  awake, 
whether  his  own  brilliant  and  subtle  ingenuity 
had  done  as  much  for  him.  He  could  hardly 
tell  the  moment  of  its  beginning,  but  he  began 
to  value  the  approval  of  this  big,  ignorant, 
clumsy,  strong  man. 

Insensibly  he  grew  to  thinking  of  conduct 
more  in  the  sheriff's  fashion  ;  and  his  letters  not 
only  reflected  the  change  in  his  moral  point  of 
view,  they  began  to  have  more  and  more  to  say 
of  the  sheriff.  Very  soon  the  mother  began  to 
be  pathetically  thankful  to  this  good  friend  of 
her  boy,  whose  habits  were  so  correct,  whose  in 
fluence  so  admirable.  In  her  grateful  happiness 
over  the  frequent  letters  and  their  affection  were 
revealed  the  unexpressed  fears  that  had  tortured 
her  for  years.  She  asked  for  Wickliff's  picture. 
Paisley  did  not  know  that  the  sheriff  had  a 
photograph  taken  on  purpose.  Mrs.  Smith  pro 
nounced  him  "  a  handsome  man."  To  be  sure, 
the  unscarred  side  of  his  face  was  taken.  "  He 


THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF  29 

looks  firm,  too/7  wrote  the  poor  mother,  whose 
own  boy  had  never  known  how  to  be  firm;  "I 
think  he  must  be  a  Daniel." 

"  A  which  ?"  exclaimed  the  puzzled  Daniel. 

"  Didn't  you  ever  go  to  Sunday-school  ?  Don't 
you  know  the  verses, 

"  'Dare  to  be  a  Daniel  ; 
Dare  to  make  a  stand '  ?" 

The  sheriff's  reply  was  enigmatical.  It  was  : 
"  Well,  to  think  of  you  having  such  a  mother  as 
that !" 

"  I  don't  deserve  her,  that's  a  fact,"  said  Pais 
ley,  with  his  flippant  air.  "And  yet,  would  you 
believe  it,  I  used  to  be  the  model  boy  of  the 
Sunday-school.  Won  all  the  prizes.  Ma's  got 
them  in  a  drawer." 

"Dare  say.  They  thought  you  were  a  awful 
good  boy,  because  you  always  kept  your  face 
clean  and  brushed  your  hair  without  being  told 
to,  and  learned  your  lessons  quick,  and  always 
said  '  Yes,  'm/  and  '  No,  'm,'  and  when  you  got 
into  a  scrape  lied  out  of  it,  and  picked  up  bad 
habits  as  easy  and  quiet  as  a  long-haired  dog 
catches  fleas.  Oh,  I  know  your  sort  of  model 
boy  !  We  had  'em  at  the  Orphans'  Home  ;  I've 
taken  their  lickings,  too." 

Paisley's  thin  face  was  scarlet  before  the  speech 


30  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

was  finished.  "Some  of  that  is  true," said  he  ; 
"but  at  least  I  never  hit  a  fellow  when  he  was 
down." 

The  sheriff  narrowed  his  eyes  in  a  way  that  he 
had  when  thinking  ;  he  put  both  hands  in  his 
pockets  and  contemplated  Paisley's  irritation. 
"  "Well,  young  feller,  you  have  some  reason  to 
talk  that  way  to  me,"  said  he.  "The  fact  is,  I 
was  mad  at  you,  thinking  about  your  mother.  I 
— I  respect  that  lady  very  highly." 

Paisley  forced  a  feeble  smile  over  his  "So  do 
I." 

But  after  this  episode  the  sheriff's  manner 
visibly  softened  to  the  young  man.  He  told 
Raker  that  there  were  good  spots  in  Paisley. 

"  Yes,  he's  mighty  slick,"  said  Raker. 

Thanksgiving  -  time,  a  box  from  his  mother 
came  to  the  prisoner,  and  among  the  pies  and 
cakes  was  an  especial  pie  for  Mr.  Wickliff, 
"From  his  affectionate  old  friend,  Rebecca 
Smith." 

The  sheriff  spent  fully  two  hours  communing 
with  a  large  new  Manual  of  Etiquette  and  Cor 
respondence  ;  then  he  submitted  a  letter  to  Pais 
ley.  Paisley  read  : 

"DEAR  MADAM,— Your  favor  (of  the  pie)  of  the  24th 
inst.  is  received  and  I  beg  you  to  accept  my  sincere  and 
warm  thanks.  Ned  is  an  efficient  clerk  and  his  habits 


•H| 

THE   THANKSGIVING   BOX 


THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF  31 

are  very  correct.  We  are  reading  history,  in  our  leisure 
hours.  We  have  read  Fisk's  Constitutional  History  of 
the  United  States  and  two  volumes  of  Macaulay's  History 
of  England.  Both  very  interesting  books.  I  think  that 
Judge  Jeffreys  was  the  meanest  and  worst  judge  I  ever 
heard  of.  My  early  education  was  not  as  extensive  as  I 
could  wish,  and  I  am  very  glad  of  the  valuable  assistance 
which  I  receive  from  j'our  son.  He  is  doing  well  and 
sends  his  love.  Hoping,  my  dear  Madam,  to  be  able  to  see 
you  and  thank  you  personally  for  your  very  kind  and  wel 
come  gift,  I  am,  with  respect, 

"Very  Truly  Yours, 

"AMOS  T.   WlCKLIFF." 

Paisley  read  the  letter  soberly.  In  fact,  an 
other  feeling  destroyed  any  inclination  to  smile 
over  the  unusual  pomp  of  Wickliff's  style. 
"  That's  out  of  sight !"  he  declared.  "  It  will 
please  the  old  lady  to  the  ground.  Say,  I  take 
it  very  kindly  of  you,  Mr.  Wickliff,  to  write 
about  me  that  way." 

"  I  had  a  book  to  help  me,"  confessed  the  nat 
tered  sheriff.  "  And  —  say,  Paisley,  when  you 
are  writing  about  me  to  your  ma,  you  better  say 
Wickliff,  or  Arnos.  Mr.  Wickliff  sounds  kinder 
stiff.  I'll  understand." 

The  letter  that  the  sheriff  received  in  return 
he  did  not  show  to  Paisley.  He  read  it  with  a 
knitted  brow,  and  more  than  once  he  brushed 
his  hand  across  his  eyes.  When  he  finished  it 


32  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

he  drew  a  long  sigh,  and  walked  up  to  his  moth 
er's  portrait.  "  She  says  she  prays  for  me  every 
night,  ma"  —  he  spoke  under  his  breath,  and 
reverently.  "  Ma,  I  simply  have  got  to  save  that 
boy  for  her,  haven't  I  ?" 

That  evening  Paisley  rather  timidly  approached 
a  subject  which  he  had  tried  twice  before  to 
broach,  but  his  courage  had  failed  him.  "You 
said  something,  Mr.  Wickliff,  of  paying  me  a  lit 
tle  extra  for  what  I  do,  keeping  the  books,  etc. 
Would  you  mind  telling  me  what  it  will  be  ?  I 
—  I'd  like  to  send  a  Christmas  present  to  my 
mother." 

"  That's  right,"  said  the  sheriff,  heartily.  "  I 
was  thinking  what  would  suit  her.  How's  a  nice 
black  dress,  and  a  bill  pinned  to  it  to  pay  for 
making  it  up  ?" 

"  But  I  never— 

"  You  can  pay  me  when  you  get  out." 

"  Do  you  think  I'll  ever  get  out  ?"  Paisley's 
fine  eyes  were  fixed  on  Wickliif  as  he  spoke,  with 
a  sudden  wistful  eagerness.  He  had  never  al 
luded  to  his  health  before,  yet  it  had  steadily 
failed.  Now  he  would  not  let  Amos  answer;  he 
may  have  flinched  from  any  confirmation  of  his 
own  fears ;  he  took  the  word  hastily.  "  Any 
how,  you'll  risk  my  turning  out  a  bad  in 
vestment.  But  you'll  do  a  damned  kind  ac- 


THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF  33 

tion  to  my  mother;  and  if  I'm  a  rip,  she's  a 
saint." 

"  Sure,"  said  the  sheriff.  "  Say,  do  you  think 
she'd  mind  my  sending  her  a  hymn-book  and  a 
few  flowers  ?" 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  the  tiny  bakery  win 
dow,  one  Christmas-day,  showed  such  a  crimson 
glory  of  roses  as  the  village  had  never  seen ;  and 
the  widow  Smith,  bowing  her  shabby  black  bon 
net  on  the  pew  rail,  gave  thanks  and  tears  for  a 
happy  Christmas,  and  prayed  for  her  son's  friend. 
She  prayed  for  her  son  also,  that  he  might  "be 
kept  good."  She  felt  that  her  prayer  would  be 
answered.  God  knows,  perhaps  it  was. 

That  night  before  she  went  to  bed  she  wrote 
to  Edgar  and  to  Amos.  "  I  am  writing  to  both 
my  boys,"  she  said  to  Amos,  "  for  I  feel  like  yon 
were  my  dear  son  too." 

When  Amos  answered  this  letter  he  did  not 
consult  the  Manual.  It  was  one  day  in  January, 
early  in  the  month,  that  he  received  the  first  bit 
of  encouragement  for  his  missionary  work  pal 
pable  enough  to  display  to  the  scoffer  Raker. 
Yet  it  was  not  a  great  thing  either  ;  only  this  : 
Paisley  (already  half  an  hour  at  work  in  the 
sheriff's  room)  stopped,  fished  from  his  sleeve  a 
piece  of  note-paper  folded  into  the  measure  of  a 
knife-blade,  and  offered  it  to  the  sheriff. 


34  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

"See  what  Mame  sent  me,"  said  he;  "just 
read  it." 

There  was  a  page  of  it,  the  purport  being  that 
the  writer  had  done  what  she  had  through  jeal 
ousy,  which  she  knew  now  was  unfounded  ;  she 
was  suffering  indescribable  agonies  from  remorse; 
and,  to  prove  she  meant  what  she  said,  if  her 
darling  Ned  would  forgive  her  she  would  get 
him  out  before  a  week  was  over.  If  he  agreed 
he  was  to  be  at  his  window  at  six  o'clock  Wednes 
day  night.  The  day  was  Thursday. 

"How  did  you  get  this  ?"  asked  Amos.  "Do 
you  mind  telling  ?" 

"Not  the  least.  It  came  in  a  coat.  From 
Barber  &  G-lasson's.  The  one  Mrs.  Raker 
picked  out  for  me,  and  it  was  sent  up  from  the 
store.  She  got  at  it  somehow,  I  suppose." 

"  But  how  did  you  get  word  where  to  look  ?" 

Paisley  grinned.  "  Mame  was  here,  visiting 
that  fellow  who  was  taken  up  for  smashing  a 
window,  and  pretended  he  was  so  hungry  he  had 
to  have  a  meal  in  jail.  Mame  put  him  up  to  it, 
so  she  could  come.  She  gave  me  the  tip  where 
to  look  then." 

"I  see.  I  got  on  to  some  of  those  signals 
once.  Well,  did  you  show  yourself  Wednes 
day  ?" 

"Not  much  !"     He  hesitated,  and  did  not  look 


THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF  35 

at  the  sheriff,  scrawling  initials  on  the  blotting- 
pad  with  his  pen.  "  Did  you  really  think,  Mr. 
Wickliff,  after  all  you've  done  for  me — and  my 
mother— I  would  go  back  on  you  and  get  you 
into  trouble  for  that — " 

"  'S-sh  !  Don't  call  names  !"  Wickliff  looked 
apprehensively  at  the  picture  of  his  mother. 
"  Why  didn't  you  give  me  this  before  ?" 

"Because  you  weren't  here  till  this  morning. 
I  wasn't  going  to  give  it  to  Kaker." 

"  What  do  you  suppose  she's  after  ?" 

"  Oh,  she's  got  some  big  scheme  on  foot,  and 
she  needs  me  to  work  it.  I'm  sick  of  her.  I'm 
sick  of  the  whole  thing.  I  want  to  run  straight. 
I  want  to  be  the  man  my  poor  mother  thinks  I 
am." 

"And  I  want  to  help  you,  Ned,"  cried  the 
sheriff.  For  the  first  time  he  caught  the  other's 
hand  and  wrung  it. 

"  I  guess  the  Lord  wants  to  help  me  too,"  said 
Paisley,  in  a  queer  dry  tone. 

"  Why — yes — of  course  he  wants  to  help  all  of 
us,"  said  the  sheriff,  embarrassed.  Then  he 
frowned,  and  his  voice  roughened  as  he  asked, 
"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?" 

"  Oh,  you  know  what  I  mean,"  said  Paisley, 
smiling ;  "  you've  always  known  it.  It's  been 
getting  worse  lately.  I  guess  I  caught  cold. 


THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

Some  mornings  I  have  to  stop  two  or  three  times 
when  I  dress  myself,  I  have  such  fits  of  cough 
ing/' 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell,  and  go  to  the  hospital?" 
"I  wanted  to  come  down  here.     It's  so  pleas 
ant  down  here." 

"  Good — "  The  sheriff  reined  his  tongue  in 
time,  and  only  said,  "Look  here,  you've  got  to 
see  a  doctor  !" 

Therefore  the  encouragement  to  the  mission 
ary  work  was  embittered  by  divers  conflicting 
feelings.  Even  Raker  was  disturbed  when  the 
doctor  announced  that  Paisley  had  pneumonia. 

"  Double  pneumonia  and  a  slim  chance,  of 
course,"  gloomed  Raker.  "Always  so.  Can't 
have  a  man  git  useful  and  be  a  little  decent,  but 
he's  got  to  die  !  Why  couldn't  it  'a'  been  that 
tramp  tried  to  set  the  jail  afire  ?" 

"  What  I'm  a-thinking  of  is  his  poor  ma,  who 
used  to  write  him  such  beautiful  letters,"  said 
Mrs.  Raker,  wiping  her  kind  eyes.  "  They  was 
so  attached.  Never  a  week  he  didn't  write  her." 
"It's  his  mother  I'm  thinking  of,  too,"  said 
the  sheriff,  with  a  groan  ;  "she'll  be  wanting  to 
come  and  see  him,  and  how  in — "  He  swallowed 
an  agitated  oath,  and  paced  the  floor,  his  hands 
clasped  behind  him,  his  lip  under  his  teeth,  and 
his  blackest  Indian  scowl  on  his  brow — plain 


THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF  37 

signs  to  all  who  knew  him  that  he  was  fighting 
his  way  through  some  mental  thicket. 

But  he  had  never  looked  gentler  than  he 
looked  an  hour  later,  as  he  stepped  softly  into 
Paisley's  cell.  Mrs.  Raker  was  holding  a  foam 
ing  glass  to  the  sick  man's  lips.  "  There  ;  take 
another  sup  of  the  good  nog,"  she  said,  coaxing- 
ly,  as  one  talks  to  a  child. 

"No,  thank  you,  ma'am,"  said  Paisley. 
"Queer  how  I've  thought  so  often  how  I'd  like 
the  taste  of  whiskey  again  on  my  tongue,  and 
now  I  can  have  all  I  want,  I  don't  care  a  hooter!" 

His  voice  was  rasped  in  the  chords,  and  he 
caught  his  breath  between  his  sentences.  Forty- 
eight  hours  had  made  an  ugly  alteration  in  his 
face ;  the  eyes  were  glassy,  the  features  had 
shrunken  in  an  indescribable,  ghastly  way,  and 
the  fair  skin  was  of  a  yellowish  pallor,  with  livid 
circles  about  the  eyes  and  the  open  mouth. 

Wickliff  greeted  him,  assuming  his  ordinary 
manner.  They  shook  hands. 

"There's  one  thing,  Mr.  Wickliff,"  said  Pais 
ley  :  "'you'll  keep  this  from  my  mother.  She'd 
worry  like  blazes,  and  want  to  come  here." 

There  was  a  photograph  on  the  table,  propped 
up  by  books  ;  the  sheriff's  hand  was  on  it,  and 
he  moved  it,  unconsciously  :  "  '  To  Eddy,  from 
Mother.  The  Lord  bless  and  keep  thee.  The 


38  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

Lord  make  his  face  to  shine  upon  thee,  and  be 
gracious  unto  thee — '"  Wickliff  cleared  his 
throat.  "Well,  I  don't  know,  Ned,"  he  said, 
cheerfully  ;  "maybe  that  would  be  a  good  thing 
— kind  of  brace  you  up  and  make  you  get  well 
quicker/' 

Mrs.  Kaker  noticed  nothing  in  his  voice  ;  but 
Paisley  rolled  his  eyes  on  the  impassive  face  in 
a  strange,  quivering,  searching  look  ;  then  he 
closed  them  and  feebly  turned  his  head. 

"  Don't  you  want  me  to  telegraph  ?  Don't 
you  want  to  see  her  ?" 

Some  throb  of  excitement  gave  Paisley  the 
strength  to  lift  himself  up  on  the  pillows. 
"  What  do  you  want  to  rile  me  all  up  for  ?" 
His  voice  was  almost  a  scream.  "Want  to  see 
her  ?  It's  the  only  thing  in  this  damned  fool 
world  I  do  want !  But  I  can't  have  her  know  ; 
it  would  kill  her  to  know.  You  must  make  up 
some  lie  about  it's  being  diphtheria  and  awful 
sudden,  and  no  time  for  her  to  come,  and  have 
me  all  out  of  the  way  before  she  gets  here. 
You've  been  awful  good  to  me,  and  you  can  do 
anything  you  like  ;  it's  the  last  I'll  bother  you— 
don't  let  her  find  out !" 

"For  the  land's  sake  !"  sniffed  Mrs.  Raker,  in 
tears — "don't  she  know  ?" 

"  No,  ma'am,  she  don't ;    and  she  never  will. 


THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF  39 

either/'  said  the  sheriff.  "  There,  Ned,  boy,  you 
lay  right  down.  I'll  fix  it.  And  you  shall  see 
her,  too.  I'll  fix  it." 

"  Yes,  he'll  fix  it.  Amos  will  fix  it.  Don't 
you  worry,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Raker,  who  had  not  the 
least  idea  how  the  sheriff  could  arrange  matters, 
but  was  just  as  confident  that  he  would  as  if  the 
future  were  unrolled  before  her  gaze. 

The  prisoner  breathed  a  long  deep  sigh  of  re- 
'  lief,  and  patted  the  strong  hand  at  his  shoulder. 
And  Amos  gently  laid  him  back  on  the  pillows. 

Before  nightfall  Paisley  was  lying  in  Amos 
Wickliff's  own  bed,  while  Amos,  at  his  side,  was 
critically  surveying  both  chamber  and  parlor 
under  half-closed  eyelids.  He  was  trying  to  see 
them  with  the  eyes  of  the  elderly  widow  of  a 
Methodist  minister. 

"Hum — yes  !"  The  result  of  the  survey  was, 
on  the  whole,  satisfactory.  "All  nice,  high- 
toned,  first-class  pictures.  Nothing  to  shock  a 
lady.  Liquors  all  put  away,  'cept  what's  needed 
for  him.  Pops  all  put  away,  so  she  won't  be 
finding  one  and  be  killing  herself,  thinking  it's 
not  loaded.  My  bed  moved  in  here  comfortable 
for  him,  because  he  thought  it  was  such  a  pleas 
ant  room,  poor  boy.  Another  bed  in  my  room 
for  her.  Bath-room  next  door,  hot  and  cold 
water.  Little  gas  stove.  Trained  nurse  who 


40  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

doesn't  know  anything,  and  so  can't  tell.  Thinks 
it's  my  friend  Smith.  Is  there  anything  else  ?" 

At  this  moment  the  white  counterpane  on  the 
bed  stirred. 

"Well,  Ned  ?"  said  Wickliff. 

"It's— nice  !"  said  Paisley. 

"That's  right.  Now  yon  get  a  firm  grip  on 
what  I'm  going  to  say — such  a  grip  you  won't 
lose  it,  even  if  you  get  out  of  your  head  a  little." 

"I  won't,"  said  Paisley. 

"All  right.  You're  not  Paisley  any  more. 
Yroii're  Ned  Smith.  I've  had  you  moved  here 
into  my  rooms  because  your  boarding  -  place 
wasn't  so  good.  Everybody  here  understands, 
and  has  got  their  story  ready.  The  nurse  thinks 
you're  my  friend  Smith.  You  are,  too,  and  you 
are  to  call  me  Amos.  The  telegram's  gone. 
.>S-sh  ! — what  a  way  to  do  !"— for  Paisley  was 
crying.  "  Ain't  I  her  boy  too  ?" 

One  weak  place  remained  in  the  fortress  that 
Amos  had  builded  against  prying  eyes  and  chat 
tering  tongues.  He  had  searched  in  vain  for 
"  Mame."  There  was  no  especial  reason,  except 
pure  hatred  and  malice,  to  dread  her  going  to 
Paisley's  mother,  but  the  sheriff  had  enough 
knowledge  of  Maine's  kind  to  take  these  qualities 
into  account. 

From  the   time   that  Wickliff  promised  him 


THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF  41 

that  he  should  have  his  mother,  Paisley  seemed 
to  be  freed  from  every  misgiving.  He  was  too 
ill  to  talk  much,  and  much  of  the  time  he  was 
miserably  occupied  with  his  own  suffering ;  yet 
often  during  the  night  and  day  before  she  came 
he  would  lift  his  still  beautiful  eyes  to  Mrs.  Ra 
ker's  and  say,  "  It's  to-morrow  night  ma  comes, 
isn't  it  ?"  To  which  the  soft  -  hearted  woman 
would  sometimes  answer,  "  Yes,  son,"  and  some 
times  only  work  her  chin  and  put  her  handker 
chief  to  her  eyes.  Once  she  so  far  forgot  the 
presence  of  the  gifted  professional  nurse  that 
she  sniffed  aloud,  whereupon  that  personage  ad 
ministered  a  scorching  tonic,  in  the  guise  of  a 
glance,  and  poor  Mrs.  Raker  went  out  of  the 
room  and  cried. 

He  must  have  kept  some  reckoning  of  the 
time,  for  the  next  day  he  varied  his  question. 
He  said,  "It's  to-day  she's  coming,  isn't  it?" 
As  the  day  wore  on,  the  customary  change  of  his 
disease  came  :  he  was  relieved  of  his  worst  pain  ; 
he  thought  that  he  was  better.  So  thought  Mrs. 
Raker  and  the  sheriff.  The  doctor  and  the  nurse 
maintained  their  inscrutable  professional  calm. 
At  ten  o'clock  the  sheriff  (who  had  been  gone 
for  a  half -hour)  softly  opened  the  door.  The  sick 
man  instantly  roused.  lie  half  sat  up.  "I 
know,"  he  exclaimed  ;  "  it's  ma.  Ma's  come  !" 


42  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

The  nurse  rose,  ready  to  protect  her  patient. 

There  entered  a  little,  black- robed,  gray-haired 
woman,  who  glided  swift  as  a  thought  to  the 
bedside,  and  gathered  the  worn  young  head  to 
her  breast.  "  My  boy,  my  dear,  good  boy  !"  she 
said,  under  her  breath,  so  low  the  nurse  did  not 
hear  her  ;  she  only  heard  her  say,  "  Now  you 
must  get  well/' 

"  Oh,  I  am  glad,  ma  I"  said  the  sick  man. 

After  that  the  nurse  was  well  content  with 
them  all.  They  obeyed  her  implicitly.  It  was 
she  rather  than  Mrs.  Raker  who  observed  that 
Mr.  Smith's  mother  was  not  alone,  but  accom 
panied  by  a  slim,  fair,  brown-eyed  young  woman, 
who  lingered  in  the  background,  and  would  fain 
have  not  spoken  to  the  invalid  at  all  had  she  not 
been  gently  pushed  forward  by  the  mother,  with 
the  words,  "  And  Ruth  came  too,  Eddy  !" 

"  Thank  you,  Ruth  ;  I  knew  that  you  wouldn't 
let  ma  come  alone,"  said  Ned,  feebly. 

The  young  woman  had  opened  her  lips.  Now 
they  closed.  She  looked  at  him  compassionate 
ly.  "  Surely  not,  Ned,"  she  said. 

But  why,  wondered  the  nurse,  who  was  ob 
servant — it  was  her  trade  to  observe — why  did 
she  look  at  him  so  intently,  and  with  such  a 
shocked  pity  ? 

Ned  did  not  express  much — the  sick,  especial- 


THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF  43 

ly  the  very  sick,  cannot ;  but  whenever  he  waked 
in  the  night  and  saw  his  mother  bending  over 
him  he  smiled  happily,  and  she  would  answer  his 
thought.  "Yes,  my  boy;  my  dear,  good  boy/' 
she  would  say. 

And  the  sheriff  in  his  dim  corner  thought  sad 
ly  that  the  ruined  life  would  always  be  saved  for 
her  now,  and  her  son  would  be  her  good  boy  for 
ever.  Yet  he  muttered  to  himself,  "I  suppose 
the  Lord  is  helping  me  out,  and  I  ought  to  feel 
obliged,  but  I'm  hanged  if  I  wouldn't  rather  take 
the  chances  and  have  the  boy  get  well !" 

But  he  knew  all  the  time  that  there  was  no 
hope  for  Ned's  life.  He  lived  three  days  after  his 
mother  came.  The  day  before  his  death  he  was 
alone  for  a  short  time  with  the  sheriff,  and  asked 
him  to  be  good  to  his  mother.  "  Euth  will  be 
good  to  her  too,"  he  said;  "but  last  night  I 
dreamed  Mame  was  chasing  mother,  and  it  scared 
me.  You  won't  let  her  get  at  mother,  will 
you  ?" 

"Of  course  I  won't,"  said  the  sheriff  ;  "we're 
watching  your  mother  every  minnit ;  and  if  that 
woman  comes  here,  Eaker  has  orders  to  clap  her 
in  jail.  And  I  will  always  look  out  for  your  ma, 
Ned,  and  she  never  shall  know." 

"That's  good,"  said  Ned,  in  his  feeble  voice. 
"  I'll  tell  you  something  :  I  always  wanted  to  be 


44  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

good,  but  I  was  always  bad  ;  but  I  believe  I 
would  have  been  decent  if  Fd  lived,  because  I'd 
have  kept  close  to  you.  You'll  be  good  to  ma — 
and  to  Ruth  ?" 

The  sheriff  thought  that  he  had  drifted  away 
and  did  not  hear  the  answer,  but  in  a  few  mo 
ments  he  opened  his  eyes  and  said,  brightly, 
"  Thank  you,  Amos."  It  was  the  first  time  that 
lie  had  used  the  other  man's  Christian  name. 

"  Yes,  Ned,"  said  the  sheriff. 

Next  morning  at  daybreak  he  died.  His  moth 
er  was  with  him.  Just  before  he  went  to  sleep 
his  mind  wandered  a  little.  He  fancied  that  he 
was  a  little  boy,  and  that  he  was  sick,  and  wanted 
to  say  his  prayers  to  his  mother.  "But  I'm  so 
sick  I  can't  get  out  of  bed,"  said  he.  "  God 
won't  mind  my  saying  them  in  bed,  will  He  ?" 
Then  he  folded  his  hands,  and  reverently  re 
peated  the  childish  rhyme,  and  so  fell  into  a 
peaceful  sleep,  which  deepened  into  peace.  In 
this  wise,  perhaps,  were  answered  many  prayers. 

Amos  made  all  the  arrangements  the  next  day. 
He  said  that  they  were  going  home  from  Fairport 
on  the  day  following,  but  he  managed  to  con 
clude  all  the  necessary  legal  formalities  in  time 
to  take  the  evening  train.  Once  on  the  train, 
and  his  companions  in  their  sections,  lie  drew  a, 
long  breath. 


THK    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF  45 

"  It  may  not  have  been  Mame  that  I  saw,"  he 
said,  taking  out  his  cigar-case  on  the  way  to  the 
smoking-room;  "it  was  merely  a  glimpse — she 
in  a  buggy,  me  on  foot ;  and  it  may  be  she 
wouldn't  do  a  thing  or  think  the  game  worth 
blackmail ;  but  I  don't  propose  to  run  any 
chances  in  this  deal.  Hullo  —  excuse  me, 
miss  !" 

The  last  words  were  uttered  aloud  to  Ruth 
Graves,  who  had  touched  him  011  the  arm.  He 
had  a  distinct  admiration  for  this  young  wom 
an,  founded  on  the  grounds  that  she  cried  very 
quietly,  that  she  never  was  underfoot,  and  that 
she  was  so  unobtrusively  kind  to  Mrs.  Smith. 

"  Anything  I  can  do  ?"  he  began,  with  genuine 
willingness. 

She  motioned  him  to  take  a  seat.  "  Mrs. 
Smith  is  safe  in  her  section,"  she  said  ;  "it  isn't 
that.  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you.  Mr.  Wickliff, 
Ned  told  me  how  it  was.  He  said  he  couldn't 
die  lying  to  everybody,  and  he  wanted  me  to 
know  how  good  you  were.-  I  am  perfectly  safe, 
Mr.  Wickliff,"  as  a  look  of  annoyance  puckered 
the  sheriff's  brow.  "He  told  me  there  was  a 
woman  who  might  some  time  try  to  make  money 
out  of  his  mother  if  she  could  find  her,  and  I  was 
to  watch.  Mr.  Wickliff,  was  she  rather  tall  and 
slim,  with  a  fine  figure  ?" 


46  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

ft  Yes— dark-complected  rather,  and  has  a  thin 
face  and  a  largish  nose." 

"And  one  of  her  eyes  is  a  little  droopy,  and 
she  has  a  gold  filling  in  her  front  tooth  ?  Mr. 
Wickliff,  that  woman  got  on  this  train." 

"  She  did,  did  she  ?"  said  the  sheriff,  showing 
no  surprise.  "Well,  my  dear  young  lady,  Fm 
very  much  obliged  to  you.  I  will  attend  to  the 
matter.  Mrs.  Smith  shaVt  be  disturbed." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  young  woman  ;  "  that's 
all.  Good-night  !" 

"  You  might  know  that  girl  had  had  a  business 
education,"  the  sheriff  mused — "says  what  she's 
got  to  say,  and  moves  on.  Poor  Ned !  poor 
Ned  !" 

Euth  went  to  her  section,  but  she  did  not  un 
dress.  She  sat  behind  the  curtains,  peering 
through  the  opening  at  Mrs.  Smith's  section  op 
posite,  or  at  the  lower  berth  next  hers,  which 
was  occupied  by  the  sheriff.  The  curtains  were 
drawn  there  also,  and  presently  she  saw  him 
disappear  by  sections  into  their  shelter.  Then 
his  shoes  were  pushed  partially  into  the  aisle. 
Empty  shoes.  She  waited  ;  it  could  not  be  that 
he  was  really  going  to  sleep.  But  the  minutes 
crept  by  ;  a  half-hour  passed  ;  no  sign  of  life 
behind  his  curtains.  An  hour  passed.  At  the 
farther  end  of  the  car  curtains  parted,  and  a 


vu 


"SHE    PAUSED    BEFORE    MRS.    SMITH'S 
SECTION  " 


THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF  47 

young  woman  slipped  out  ot  her  berth.  She 
was  dark  and  not  handsome,  but  an  elegant 
shape  and  a  modish  gown  made  her  attrac 
tive-looking.  One  of  her  eyelids  drooped  a 
little. 

She  walked  down  the  aisle  and  paused  before 
Mrs.  Smith's  section,  Kuth  holding  her  breath. 
She  looked  at  the  big  shoes  on  the  floor,  her  lip 
curling.  Then  she  took  the  curtains  of  Mrs. 
Smith's  section  in  both  hands  and  put  her  head 
in. 

"  I  must  stop  her  !"  thought  Ruth.  But  she 
did  not  spring  out.  The  sheriff,  fully  dressed, 
was  beside  the  woman,  and  an  arm  of  iron  de 
liberately  turned  her  round. 

"The  game's  up,  Mamie,"  said  Wickliff. 

She  made  no  noise,  only  looked  at  him. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  said  she,  with 
perfect  composure. 

"Arrest  you  if  you  make  a  racket,  talk  to  you 
if  you  don't.  Go  into  that  seat."  He  indicated 
a  seat  in  the  rear,  and  she  took  it  without  a 
word.  He  sat  near  the  aisle  ;  she  was  by  the 
window. 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  to  sit  here  all  night," 
she  remarked,  scornfully. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  he ;  "just  to  the  next  place. 
Then  you'll  get  out." 


48  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

"Oh,  will  I?" 

"You  will.  Either  you  will  get  out  and  go 
about  your  business,  or  you  will  get  out  and  be 
taken  to  jail." 

"  We're  smart.     What  for  ?" 

"  For  inciting  prisoners  to  escape." 

"  Ned's  dead/'  with  a  sneer. 

"  Yes,  he's  dead,  and" — he  watched  her  nar 
rowly,  although  he  seemed  absorbed  in  button 
ing  his  coat — "they  say  he  haunts  his  old  cell, 
as  if  he'd  lost  something.  Maybe  it's  the  letter 
you  folded  up  small  enough  to  go  in  the  seam 
of  a  coat.  I've  got  that."  He  saw  that  she  was 
watching  him  in  turn,  and  that  she  was  ner 
vous.  "  Ned's  dead,  poor  fellowr,  true  enough  ; 
but  —  the  girl  at  Barber  &  Glasson's  ain't 
dead." 

She  began  to  fumble  with  her  gloves,  peeling 
them  off  and  rolling  them  into  balls.  He  thought 
to  himself  that  the  chances  were  that  she  was 
superstitious. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said,  sharply,  "have  an  end 
of  this  nonsense  ;  you  get  off  at  the  next  place, 
and  never  bother  that  old  lady  again,  or — I  will 
have  you  arrested,  and  you  can  try  for  yourself 
whether  Ned's  cell  is  haunted." 

For  a  brief  space  they  eyed  each  other,  she 
in  an  access  of  impotent  rage,  he  stolid  as  the 


THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF  49 

carving  of  the  seat.  The  car  shivered  ;  the  great 
wheels  moved  more  slowly.  "  Decide/'  said  he  ; 
not  imperatively — dryly,  without  emotion  of  any 
sort.  He  kept  his  mild  eyes  011  her. 

"  It  wasn't  his  mother  I  meant  to  tell ;  it 
was  that  girl  —  that  nice  girl  he  wanted  to 
marry— 

"You  make  me  tired/'  said  the  sheriff.  "Are 
you  going,  or  am  I  to  make  a  scene  and  take 
you  ?  I  don't  care  much." 

She  slipped  her  hancl  behind  her  into  her 
pocket. 

The  sheriff  laughed,  and  grasped  one  wrist. 

"/don't  want  to  talk  to  the  country  fools/' 
she  snapped. 

"  This  way,"  said  the  sheriff,  guiding  her. 
The  train  had  stopped.  She  laughed  as  he 
politely  handed  her  off  the  platform  ;  the  next 
moment  the  wheels  were  turning  again  and  she 
was  gone.  He  never  saw  her  again. 

The  porter  came  out  to  stand  by  his  side  in 
the  vestibule,  watching  the  lights  of  the  station 
race  away  and  the  darkling  winter  fields  fly  past. 
The  sheriff  was  well  known  to  him  ;  he  nodded 
an  eager  acquiescence  to  the  officer's  request: 
"  If  those  ladies  in  8  and  9  ask  you  any  questions, 
just  tell  them  it  was  a  crazy  woman  getting  the 
wrong  section,  and  I  took  care  of  her." 


50  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

Within  the  car  a  desolate  mother  wept  the 
long  night  through,  yet  thanked  God  amid  her 
tears  for  her  son's  last  good  days,  and  did  not 
dream  of  the  blacker  sorrow  that  had  menaced 
her  and  had  been  hurled  aside. 


THE   CABINET   ORGAN 


THE   CABINET   ORGAN 


IT  was  a  June  day.     Not  one  of  those  per- 
fervid  June  days  that  simulate  the  heat  of 
July,  and  try  to  show  the  corn  what  June  can 
do,  but  one  of  Shakespeare's  lovely  and  temperate 
days,  just  warm  enough  to  unfurl  the  rose  petals 
of  the  Armstrong  rose-trees  and  ripen  the  grass 
flowers  in  the  Beaumonts7  unmowed  yard. 

The  Beaumonts  lived  in  the  north  end  of  town, 
at  the  terminus  of  the  street-car  line.  They  did 
not  live  in  the  suburbs  because  they  liked  space 
and  country  air,  nor  in  order  to  have  flowers  and 
a  kitchen -garden  of  their  own,  like  the  Arm 
strongs  opposite,  but  because  the  rent  was  lower. 
The  Beaumonts  were  very  poor  and  very  proud. 
The  Armstrongs  were  neither  poor  nor  proud. 
Joel  Armstrong,  the  head  of  the  family,  owned 
the  comfortable  house,  with  its  piazzas  and  bay- 
windows,  the  small  stable  and  the  big  yard. 
There  was  a  yard  enclosed  in  poultry  -  netting, 


54:  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

and  a  pasture  for  the  cow,  and  the  elderly  family 
horse  that  had  picked  up  so  amazingly  under  the 
influence  of  good  living  and  kindness  that  no 
one  would  suspect  how  cheaply  the  car  company 
had  sold  him. 

Armstrong  was  the  foreman  of  a  machine- 
shop.  Every  morning  at  half-past  six  Pauline 
Beaumont,  who  rose  early,  used  to  see  him  board 
the  street  car  in  his  foreman's  clothes,  which 
differs  from  working-men's  clothes,  though  only 
in  a  way  visible  to  the  practised  observer.  He 
always  was  smoking  a  short  pipe,  and  he  usually 
was  smiling.  Mrs.  Armstrong  was  a  comely  wom 
an,  who  had  a  great  reputation  in  the  neighbor 
hood  as  a  cook  and  a  nurse.  In  the  family  were 
three  boys — if  one  can  call  the  oldest  a  boy,  who 
was  a  young  carpenter,  just  this  very  day  setting 
up  for  master-builder.  The  second  boy  was  fif 
teen,  and  in  the  high  -  school,  and  the  youngest 
was  ten.  There  were  no  daughters;  but  for  helper 
Mrs.  Armstrong  had  a  stout  young  Swede,  who 
was  occasionally  seen  by  the  Beaumonts  hiding 
broken  pieces  of  glass  or  china  in  a  convenient 
ravine.  The  Beaumont  house  was  much  smaller 
than  the  Armstrongs',  nor  was  it  in  such  admi 
rable  repair  and  paint;  but  then,  as  Henriette 
Beaumont  was  used  to  say,  "  They  had  not  a 
carpenter  in  the  family." 


THE    CABINET    ORGAN  55 

It  will  be  seen  that  the  Beaumonts  held  them 
selves  very  high  above  the  Armstrongs.  They 
could  not  forget  that  twenty-five  years  ago  their 
father  had  been  Lieutenant-Governor,  and  they 
had  been  accounted  rich  people  in  the  little 
Western  city.  Father  and  fortune  had  been  lost 
long  since.  They  were  poor,  obscure,  working 
hard  for  a  livelihood  ;  but  they  still  kept  their 
pride,  which  only  increased  as  their  visible  con 
sequence  diminished.  Nevertheless,  Pauline  of 
ten  looked  wistfully  across  at  the  Armstrongs' 
little  feasts  and  fun,  and  always  walked  home 
on  their  side  of  the  street.  Pauline  was  the 
youngest  and  least  proud  of  the  Beaumonts. 

To-day,  as  usual,  she  came  down  the  street,  past 
the  neat  low  fence  of  the  Armstrongs ;  but  in 
stead  of  passing,  merely  glancing  in  at  the  lawn 
and  the  house,  she  stopped  ;  she  leaned  her  shab 
by  elbows  on  the  gate,  where  she  could  easily  see 
the  dining-room  and  sniff  the  savory  odors  float 
ing  from  the  kitchen.  "  Oh,  doesn't  it  smell 
good  ?"  she  murmured.  "  Chickens  'fried,  and 
new  potatoes,  and  a  strawberry  short-cake.  They 
have  such  a  nice  garden."  She  caught  her  breath 
in  a  mirthless  laugh.  "How  absurd  I  am!  I 
feel  like  staying  here  and  smelling  the  whole 
supper!  Yesterday  they  had  waffles,  and  the  day 
before  beefsteak — such  lovely,  hearty  things!" 


56  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

She  was  a  tall  girl,  too  thin  for  her  height, 
with  a  pretty  carriage  and  a  delicate  irregular 
face,  too  colorless  and  tired  for  beauty,  but  not 
for  charm.  Her  skin  was  fine  and  clear,  and  her 
brown  hair  very  soft.  Her  gray  eyes  were  alight 
with  interest  as  she  watched  the  finishing  touches 
given  the  table,  which  was  spread  with  a  glossy 
white  cloth,  and  had  a  bowl  of  June  roses  in  the 
centre.  Mrs.  Armstrong,  in  a  new  dimity  gown 
and  white  apron,  was  placing  a  great  platter  of 
golden  sponge  -  cake  on  the  board.  She  looked 
up  and  saw  Pauline.  The  girl  could  invent  no 
better  excuse  for  her  scrutiny  (which  had  such 
an  air  of  prying)  than  to  drop  her  head  as  if  in 
faintness  —  an  excuse,  indeed,  suggested  by  her 
own  feelings.  In  a  minute  Mrs.  Armstrong  had 
stepped  through  the  bay-window  and  was  on  the 
other  side  of  the  fence,  listening  with  vivid  sym 
pathy  to  Pauline's  shamefaced  murmur:  "Ex 
cuse  me,  but  I  feel  so  ill!" 

"It's  a  rush  of  blood  to  the  head,"  cried  Mrs. 
Armstrong,  all  the  instincts  of  a  nurse  aroused. 
"  Come  right  in  ;  you  mustn't  think  of  going 
home.  Land  !  you'll  like  as  not  faint  before  I 
can  get  over  to  you.  Hold  on  to  the  fence  if  you 
feel  things  swimming !" 

Pauline,  in  her  confusion,  grew  red  and  red 
der,  while,  despite  inarticulate  protestations,  she 


s 


SHE  LEANED  JIER  SHABBY  ELBOWS  ON   THE  GATE' 


THE    CABINET    ORGAN  57 

was  propelled  into  the  house  and  on  to  a  large 
lounge. 

"  Lay  your  head  back,"  commanded  the  nurse, 
appearing  with  an  ammonia-bottle  in  one  hand 
and  a  fan  in  the  other. 

"  It's  nothing  —  nothing  at  all,"  gasped  Pau 
line,  between  shame  and  the  fumes  of  ammonia. 
"The  day  was  a  little  warm,  and  I  walked  home, 
and  I  was  so  busy  I  ate  no  lunch" — as  if  that 
were  a  change  from  her  habits  —  "and  all  at 
once  I  felt  faint.  But  I'm  all  right  now." 

"Well,  I  don't  wonder  you're  faint,"  cried 
Mrs.  Armstrong;  "you  oughtn't  to  do  that  way. 
Now  you  just  got  to  lie  still —  Oh,  that's  only 
Ikey.  Ikey,  you  get  a  glass  of  wine  for  this 
lady;  it's  Miss  Beaumont." 

The  tall  young  man  in  the  gray  suit  and 
the  blue  flannel  shirt  blushed  a  little  under 
his  sunburn  as  he  bowed.  "  Pleased  to  meet 
you,  miss,"  said  he,  promptly,  before  he  disap 
peared. 

"This  is  a  great  day  for  us,"  continued  the 
mother,  releasing  the  ammonia  from  duty,  and 
beginning  to  fan  vigorously.  "Ike  has  set  up 
as  master-builder — only  two  men,  and  he  does 
most  of  the  work  ;  but  he's  got  a  house  all  to 
himself,  and  the  chance  of  some  bigger  ones. 
We're  having  a  little  celebration.  You  must 


58  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

excuse  the  paper  on  the  lounge  ;  I  put  it  down 
when  we  unpacked  the  organ." 

"  Oh,  did  the  organ  come  ?"  said  the  son. 

"It  surely  did,  and  we've  played  on  it  al 
ready." 

"Why,  did  you  get  the  music  ?  Was  it  in 
the  box,  too  ?" 

"Oli,  we  'ain't  played  tunes;  we  just  have 
been  trying  it — like  to  see  how  it  goes.  It's  got 
an  awful  sweet  sound." 

"And  you  ought  to  hear  me  play  a  tune  on 
it,  ma." 

"  You  !     For  the  land's  sake  !" 

"Yes,  me — that  never  did  play  a  tune  in  my 
life.  Anybody  can  play  on  that  organ."  He 
turned  politely  to  Pauline,  as  to  include  her  in 
the  conversation.  "You  see,  Miss  Beaumont, 
we're  a  musical  family  that  can't  sing.  We 
can't,  as  they  say,  carry  a  tune  to  save  our  im 
mortal  souls.  The  trouble  isn't  with  the  voice  ; 
it's  with  our  ears.  We  can  hear  well  enough, 
too,  but  we  haven't  an  ear  for  music.  I  took 
lessons  once,  trying  to  learn  to  sing,  but  the 
teacher  finally  braced  up  to  tell  me  that  he 
hadn't  the  conscience  to  take  my  money. 
'  What's  the  matter  ?'  says  I.  '  You've  lots  of 
voice,'  says  he,  '  but  you  haven't  a  mite  of  ear.' 
'Can't  anybody  teach  me  to  sing  ?'  says  I. 


THE    CABINET    ORGAN  59 

unless  they  hypnotize  you,  like  Trilby/  says  he. 
So  I  gave  it  up.  But  next  I  thought  I  would 
learn  to  play ;  for  if  there's  one  thing  ma  and 
the  boys  and  I  all  love,  it's  music.  And  just 
then,  as  luck  would  have  it,  this  teacher  wanted 
to  sell  his  cabinet  organ,  which  is  in  perfect 
shape  and  a  fine  instrument.  And  I  was  crav 
ing  to  buy  it,  but  I  knew  it  was  ridiculous, 
when  none  of  us  can  play.  But  I  kept  think 
ing.  Finally  it  came  to  me.  I  had  seen  those 
zither  things  with  numbers  on  them  ;  why 
couldn't  he  paint  numbers  on  the  keys  of  the 
organ  just  that  way,  and  make  music  to  corre 
spond  ?  And  that's  just  the  way  we've  done. 
You're  very  musical.  I — I've  often  listened  to 
your  playing.  What  do  you  think  of  it  ?"  He 
looked  at  her  wistfully. 

"  I  think  it  very  ingenious — very/'  said  Pau 
line.  She  had  risen  now,  and  she  thanked  Mrs. 
Armstrong,  and  said  she  must  go  home.  In 
truth,  she  was  in  a  panic  at  the  thought  of  what 
she  had  done.  Henriette  never  would  under 
stand.  Her  heart  beat  guiltily  all  the  way 
home. 

There  were  three  Beaumonts — Henriette,  My- 
silla,  and  Pauline.  Henriette  and  Mysilla  were 
twins,  who  had  dressed  alike  from  childhood's 
hour,  although  Mysilla  was  very  plain,  a  color- 


(J()  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

less  blonde,  of  small  stature  and  painfully  thin, 
while  Henriette  was  tall,  with  a  stately  figure 
and  a  handsome  dark  face  that  would  have 
looked  well  on  a  Roman  coin.  Yet  Henriette 
was  a  woman  of  good  taste,  and  she  spent  many 
a  night  trying  to  decide  on  a  gown  which  would 
suit  equally  well  Mysie's  fair  head  and  her  glos 
sy  black  one.  Both  the  black  and  the  brown 
head  were  gray  now,  but  they  still  wore  frocks 
and  hats  alike.  Henriette  held  that  it  was  the 
hall-mark  of  a  good  family  to  clothe  twins 
alike,  and  Henriette  did  not  have  her  Roman 
features  for  nothing.  Mysilla  had  always  adored 
and  obeyed  Henriette.  She  gloried  in  Henri- 
ette's  haughty  beauty  and  grace,  and  she  was  as 
proud  of  both  now  that  Henriette  was  a  shabby 
elderly  woman,  who  had  to  wear  dyed  gowns 
and  darned  gloves,  as  in  the  days  when  she  was 
the  belle  of  the  Iowa  capital,  and  poor  Jim 
Perley  fought  a  duel  with  Captain  Sayre  over  a 
misplaced  dance  on  her  ball -card.  Henriette 
promised  to  marry  Jim  after  the  duel,  but  Jim 
died  of  pneumonia  that  very  week.  For  Jim's 
sake,  John  Perley,  his  brother,  was  good  to  the 
girls.  Pauline  was  a  baby  when  her  father  died. 
She  never  remembered  the  days  of  pomp,  only 
the  lean  days  of  adversity.  John  Perley  ob 
tained  a  clerkship  for  her  in  a  music -store. 


THE    CABINET    ORGAN  61 

Ilenriette  gave  music  lessons.  She  was  a  brill 
iant  musician,  but  she  criticised  her  pupils  pre 
cisely  as  she  would  have  done  any  other  equally 
stupid  performers,  and  her  pupils'  parents  did 
not  always  love  the  truth.  Mysilla  took  in  plain 
sewing,  as  the  phrase  goes.  She  sometimes 
(since  John  Perley  had  given  them  a  sewing- 
machine)  made  as  much  as  four  dollars  a  week. 
They  invariably  paid  their  rent  in  advance,  and 
when  they  had  not  money  to  buy  enough  to  eat 
they  went  hungry.  They  never  cared  to  know 
their  neighbors,  and  Pauline  cringed  as  she  im 
aged  Henriettas  sarcasms  had  she  seen  her  sis 
ter  drinking  the  Armstrongs'  California  port. 
Henriette  had  stood  in  the  hall  corner  and 
waved  Pauline  fiercely  and  silently  away  while 
the  unconscious  Mrs.  Armstrong  thumped  at 
the  broken  bell  outside,  and  at  last  departed, 
remarking,  "  Well,  they  must  be  gone,  or 
dead !" 

Therefore  rather  timidly  Pauline  opened  the 
door  of  the  little  room  that  was  both  parlor  and 
dining-room.  Any  one  could  see  that  the  room 
belonged  to  people  who  loved  music.  The  old- 
fashioned  grand-piano  was  under  protection  of 
busts  of  Bach,  Beethoven.,  and  Wagner ;  and 
Mysie's  violin  stood  in  the  corner,  near  a  book 
case  full  of  musical  biographies.  An  air  of  ex- 


62  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

quisite  neatness  was  like  an  aroma  of  lavender 
in  the  room,  and  with  it  was  fused  a  prim  good 
taste,  such  as  might  properly  belong  to  gentle 
women  who  had  learned  the  household  arts 
when  the  rule  of  three  was  sacred,  and  every 
large  ornament  must  be  attended  by  a  smaller 
one  on  either  side.  And  an  observer  of  a  gentle 
mind,  futhermore,  might  have  found  a  kind  of 
pathos  in  the  shabbiness  of  it  all  ;  for  every 
thing  fine  was  worn  and  faded,  and  everything 
new  was  coarse.  The  portrait  of  the  Lieuten- 
ant-Governor  faced  the  door.  For  company  it 
had  on  either  side  small  engravings  of  Webster 
and  Clay.  Beneath  it  was  placed  the  tea-table, 
ready  spread.  The  cloth  was  of  good  quality., 
but  thin  with  long  service.  On  the  table  a 
large  plate  of  bread  held  the  place  of  impor 
tance,  with  two  small  plates  on  either  corner, 
the  one  containing  a  tiny  slice  of  suspiciously 
yellow  butter,  and  the  other  a  cone  of  solid 
jelly.  Such  jelly  they  sell  at  the  groceries  out 
of  firkins.  A  glass  jug  of  tea  stood  by  a  plated 
ice-water  jug  of  a  pattern  highly  esteemed  be 
fore  the  war.  Henriette  was  stirring  a  small 
lump  of  ice  about  the  sides  of  the  tea-jug.  She 
greeted  Pauline  pleasantly. 

"  Iced  tea  ?"   said  Pauline.      "  I  thought  we 
were  to  have  hot  tea  and  sausages  and  toast.     I 


THE    CABINET    ORGAN  63 

gave  Mysie  twenty-five  cents  for  them  this  morn 
ing."  She  did  not  say  that  it  was  the  money 
for  more  than  one  day's  luncheon. 

"Yes,  Mysie  said  something  about  it/'  said 
Henriette,  "  but  it  didn't  seem  worth  while  to 
burn  up  so  much  wood  merely  to  heat  the  water 
for  tea  ;  and  toast  uses  up  so  much  butter." 

"  But  I  gave  Mysie  a  dollar  to  buy  a  little  oil- 
stove  that  we  could  use  in  summer  ;  and  there 
was  the  sausage;  I  don't  mean  to  find  fault, 
sister  Etty,  but  I'm  ravenously  hungry." 

"Of  course,  child,"  Henriette  agreed,  benign 
ly  ;  "  you  are  always  hungry.  But  I  think  you'll 
agree  I  was  lucky  not  to  have  bought  that  stove 
and  those  sausages  this  morning.  Who  do 
you  think  is  coming  to  this  town  next  week  ? 
Theodore  Thomas,  with  his  own  orchestra ! 
And  just  as  I  was  going  into  that  store  to  buy 
your  stove — though  I  didn't  feel  at  all  sure  it 
wouldn't  explode  and  burn  the  house  down- 
John  Perley  came  up  and  gave  me  a  ticket,  an 
orchestra  seat;  and  I  said  at  once,  "The  girls 
must  go  too';  but  I  hadn't  but  twenty-five  cents, 
and  no  more  coming  in  for  a  week.  Then  it 
occurred  to  me  like  a  flash,  there  was  this  money 
you  had  given  me  ;  and,  Paula,  I  made  such  a 
bargain !  The  man  at  Farrell's,  where  they  are 
selling  the  tickets,  will  get  us  three  seats,  not 


f,4  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

very  far  back  in  the  gallery,  for  my  orchestra 
seat  and  the  money,  and  we  shall  have  enough 
money  left  to  take  us  home  in  the  street  cars. 
Now  do  you  understand  ?"  concluded  Henriette, 
triumphantly. 

"Yes,  sister  Etty  ;  it  will  be  splendid/'  re 
sponded  Pauline,  but  with  less  enthusiasm  than 
Henriette  had  expected. 

"Aren't  you  glad  ?"  she  demanded. 

"  Oh  yes,  I'm  glad  ;  but  I'm  so  dead  tired  I  can 
hardly  talk,"  said  Pauline,  as  she  left  the  room. 
She  felt  every  stair  as  she  climbed  it ;  but  her 
face  cleared  at  the  sight  of  Mysie  coming  through 
the  hall. 

"It's  a  lovely  surprise,  Mysie,  isn't  it  ?"  she 
cried,  cheerfully.  She  always  called  Mysie  by 
her  Christian  name,  without  prefix.  Henriette, 
although  of  the  same  age,  was  so  much  more 
important  a  person  that  she  would  have  felt  the 
unadorned  name  a  liberty.  But  nobody  was 
afraid  of  Mysie.  Pauline  wound  one  of  her  long- 
arms  about  her  waist  and  kissed  her. 

Mysie  gave  a  little  gasp  of  mingled  pleasure 
and  relief,  and  the  burden  of  her  thoughts 
slipped  off  in  the  words,  "I  knew  you  'lotted 
on  that  oil-stove,  Paula,  but  Etty  said  you  would 
want  me  to  go — " 

"I  wouldn't  go  without  you,"  Pauline  burst 


THE    CABINET    ORGAN  65 

in,  vehemently,  "and  I'd  live  on  bread  and  jelly 
for  a  week  to  give  you  that  pleasure." 

"There  was  the  sausage,  too;  I  did  feel  bad 
about  that ;  you  ought  to  have  good  hot  meals 
after  working  all  day." 

"No  more  than  you,  Mysie." 

"  I'm  not  on  my  feet  all  day.  And  I  did  think 
of  taking  some  of  that  seventy-five  cents  we  have 
saved  for  the  curtains,  but  I  didn't  like  to  spend 
any  without  consulting  you." 

"It's  your  own  money,  Mysie  ;  but  anyhow  I 
suppose  we  need  the  curtains.  Go  on  down  ; 
Henriette's  calling.  I'll  be  down  directly." 
But  after  she  heard  her  sister's  uncertain  foot 
step  on  the  stair  she  stood  frowning  out  of  the 
window  at  the  Armstrong  house.  "  It's  hideous 
to  think  it,"  she  murmured,  "but  I  don't  care— 
we  have  so  much  music  and  so  little  sausage  ! 
I  wish  I  had  the  money  for  my  ticket  to  the 
concert  to  spend  on  meat !" 

Then,  remorsefully,  she  went  down-stairs,  and 
after  supper  she  played  all  the  evening  on  the 
piano ;  but  the  airs  that  she  chose  were  in  a 
simple  strain— minstrel  songs  of  a  generation 
ago,  like  "Nelly  was  a  lady"  and  "Hard  times 
come  again  no  more,"  from  a  battered  old  book 
of  her  mother's. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  try  a  few  Moody  and 


66  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

Sankeys  ?"  Henriette  jeered  after  a  while. 
"Foster  seems  to  me  only  one  degree  less  maud 
lin  and  commonplace.  He  makes  me  think  of 
tuberoses  !"  Pauline  laughed  and  went  to  the 
window.  The  white  porcupine  of  electric  light 
at  the  corner  threw  out  long  spikes  of  radiance 
athwart  the  narrow  sidewalk,  and  a  man's  shadow 
dipped  into  the  lighted  space.  The  man  was 
leaning  his  arms  on  the  fence.  "Foolish  fel 
low  !"  Pauline  laughed  softly  to  herself.  That 
night,  shortly  after  she  had  dropped  asleep, 
she  was  awakened  out  of  a  dream  of  staying  to 
supper  with  the  Armstrongs,  and  beholding  the 
board  loaded  with  broiled  chickens  and  pi  inn  - 
pudding,  by  a  clutch  on  her  shoulder.  "It  was 
quite  accidental/'  she  pleaded  ;  "it  really  was. 
sister  Etty  !"  For  her  dream  seemed  to  project 
itself  into  real  life,  and  there  was  Henriette,  a 
stern  figure  in  flowing  white,  bending  over  her. 

"Wake  up!"  she  cried.  "Listen!  There's 
something  awful  happening  at  the  Armstrongs'.'' 

Pauline  sat  up  in  bed  as  suddenly  as  a  jack-in- 
the-box.  Then  she  gave  a  little  gasp  of  laughter. 
"  They  are  all  right,"  said  she  ;  "  they  are  play 
ing  on  their  organ.  That's  the  way  they  play/' 

The  organ  ceased  to  moan,  and  Henriette  re 
turned  to  her  couch.  In  ten  minutes  she  was 
back  again,  shaking  Pauline.  "Wake  up  !"  she 


THE    CABINET    ORGAN  67 

cried.  "  How  can  you  sleep  in  such  a  racket  ? 
He  has  been  murdering  popular  tunes  by  inches, 
and  now  what  he  is  doing  I  don't  know,  but  it 
is  awful.  You  know  them  best.  Get  up  and 
call  to  them  that  we  can't  sleep  for  the  noise 
they  make."  * 

"'I  suppose  they  have  a  right  to  play  on  their 
own  organ." 

"They  haven't  a  right  to  make  such  a  pan 
demonium  anywhere.  If  you  won't  do  some 
thing,  I'm  going  to  pretend  I  think  it's  cats, 
and  call  '  Scat  !'  and  throw  something  at  them." 
"You  wouldn't  hit  anything,"  Pauline  re 
turned,  in  that  sleepy  tone  which  always  rouses 
a  wakeful  sufferer's  wrath.  "Better  shut  your 
window.  You  can't  hear  nearly  so  well  then.'' 

"Yes,  sister.  Til  shut  the  window,"  Mysie  called 
from  the  chamber,  as  usual  eager  for  peace. 

"You  let  that  window  alone,"  commanded 
Henriette,  sternly.  A  long  pause— Henriette 
seated  in  rigid  agony  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  ;  the 
Armstrongs  experimenting  with  the  Vox  Humana 
stop.  "  Pauline,  do  you  mean  to  say  that  you 
can  sleep?  Pauline!  Pauline!" 

"  What's  the  matter  now  ?"  asked  Pauline. 
"I  am  going   to  take  my  brush— no,  I  shall 
take  your  brush,  Pauline  Beaumont — and  hurl 
it  at  them  !" 


THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 


"  Oh,  sister,  please  don't/'  begged  Mysie  from 
within,  like  the  voices  on  a  stage. 

Henriette  spoke  not  again  ;  she  strode  out  of 
the  room,  and  did  even  as  she  had  threatened. 
She  flung  Pauline's  brush  straight  at  the  organist. 
sitting  before  the  window.  Whether  she  really 
meant  to  injure  young  Armstrong's  candid  brow 
is  an  open  question  ;  and,  judging  from  the 
result,  I  infer  that  she  did  not  mean  to  do  more 
than  scare  her  sister  ;  therefore  she  aimed  afar. 
By  consequence  the  missile  sped  straight  into 
the  centre  of  the  window.  But  not  through  it  ; 
the  window  was  raised,  and  a  wire  screen  rattled 
the  brush  back  with  a  shivering  jar. 

"  What's  that?  A  bat?"  said  Armstrong, 
happily  playing  on.  His  father  and.  mother 
were  beaming  upon  him  in  deep  content  —  his 
father  a  trifle  sleepy,  but  resolved,  the  morrow 
being  Sunday,  to  enjoy  this  musical  hour  to  the 
full,  his  mother  seated  beside  him  and  reading 
the  numbers  aloud. 

"You  see,  Ikey,"she  had  explained,  "that's 
what  makes  you  slow.  While  you're  reading 
the  numbers,  you  lose  'em  on  the  organ  ;  and 
while  you're  finding  the  numbers  on  the  keys, 
you  loose  'em  on  the  paper.  I'll  read  them 
awful  low,  so  no  one  would  suspect,  and  you 
keep  your  whole  mind  on  those  keys.  Now  be- 


THE    CABINET    ORGAN 

gin  again  ;  I've  got  a  pin  to  prick  them — 2 

1_3 — no,  1-8,  1-8 — it's  only  one  1-8  :  guess  we 

better  begin  again." 

So  Mrs.  Armstrong  droned  forth  the  numbers 
and  Ikey  hammered  them  on  the  organ,  pump 
ing  with  his  feet,  whenever  he  did  not  forget. 
The  two  boys  slept  peacefully  through  the  weird 
clamor.  The  neighbors,  with  one  exception, 
were  apparently  undisturbed.  That  exception, 
named  Henrietta  Beaumont,  heard  with  swelling 
wrath . 

'•I've  thrown  the  brush/''  said  she.  No  re 
sponse  from  the  pillow.  "Now  Fni  going  to 
throw  the  broken  -  handled  mug,''  continued 
Henriette,  in  a  tone  of  deadly  resolve;  "it's 
heavy,  and  it  may  kill  some  one,  but  I  can't  help 
it!"  Still  a  dead  silence.  Crash!  smash!  The 
mug  with  the  broken  handle  had  sped  against 
the  weather-boarding. 

"Now  what  was  that?''  cried  Ike,  jumping 
up.  Before  he  was  on  his  feet  a  broken  soap- 
dish  had  followed  the  mug.  Up  new  the  sash, 
and  Ike  was  out  of  the  window.  "What  are 
you  doing  that  for  ?  What  do  you  mean  by 
that?"  he  yelled,  to  which  the  dark  and  silent 
house  opposite  naturally  made  no  reply.  Ike 
was  out  in  the  road  now,  and  botl  his  parents 
were  after  him.  The  elder  Armstrong  had  been 


70  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

so  suddenly  wakened  from  ;i  doze  that  he  was 
under  the  impression  of  a  fire  somewhere,  and 
let  out  a  noble  shout  to  that  effect.  Mrs.  Arm 
strong,  convinced  that  a  dynamite  bomb  had 
missed  fire,  gathered  her  skirts  tightly  around 
her  ankles — as  if  bombs  could  run  under  them 
like  mice — and  helped  by  screaming  alternately 
"Police  !"  and  "Murder  !" 

Henrietta  gloated  silently  over  the  confusion. 
It  did  her  soul  good  to  see  Ike  Armstrong  run 
ning  along  the  sidewalk  after  supposititious  boys. 

The  Armstrongs  did  not  return  to  the  organ. 
Henriette  heard  their  footsteps  on  the  gravel, 
she  heard  the  muffled  sound  of  voices  ;  but  not 
again  did  the  tortured  instrument  excite  her 
nerves,  and  she  sank  into  a  troubled  slumber. 
As  they  sat  at  breakfast  the  next  morning,  and 
Henriette  was  calculating  the  share  due  each 
cup  from  the  half-pint  of  boiled  milk,  the  broken 
bell-wire  jangled.  Pauline  said  she  would  go. 

"  It  can't  be  any  one  to  call  so  early  in  the 
morning,"  said  Henriette  ;  "  you  may  go." 

It  was  young  Armstrong,  in  his  Sunday  clothes. 
Pauline's  only  picture  of  him  had  been  in  his 
work-a-day  garb  ;  it  was  curious  how  differently 
he  impressed  her,  fresh  from  the  bath  and  the 
razor,  trigly  buttoned  up  in  a  perfectly  fitting 
suit  of  blue  and  brown,  with  a  dazzling  rim  of 


"  'SOMEBODY   TIIllEW   THESE   THINGS   AT    OUll   WINDOW 


THE    CABINET    ORGAN 


white  against  his  shapely  tanned  throat,  and  a 
crimson  rose  in  his  button-hole.  "How  hand 
some  he  is  !"  thought  Pauline.  She  had  never 
been  satisfied  with  her  own  nose,  and  she  looked 
at  the  straight  bridge  of  his  and  admired  it. 
She  was  too  innocent  and  ignorant  herself  to 
notice  how  innocently  clear  were  his  eyes  ;  but 
she  thought  that  they  looked  true  and  kind,  and 
she  did  notice  the  bold  lines  of  his  chin  and  jaw, 
and  the  firm  mouth  under  his  black  mustache. 
Unaccountably  she  grew  embarrassed  ;  he  was 
looking  at  her  so  gravely,  almost  sternly,  his  new 
straw  hat  in  one  hand,  and  the  other  slightly 
extended  to  her  and  holding  a  neat  bundle. 

He  bowed  ceremoniously,  as  he  had  seen  act 
ors  bow  on  the  stage.  "  Somebody  threw  these 
things  at  our  window  last  night/'  said  he;  "I 
think  they  belong  to  you.  1  couldn't  find  all 
the  pieces  of  the  china." 

"  They  weren't  all  there,"  stammered  Pauline, 
foolishly  ;  and  then  a  wave  of  mingled  confusion 
and  irritation  at  her  false  position  —  there  was 
her  monogram  on  the  ivory  brush  ! — and  a  queer 
kind  of  amusement,  swept  over  her,  and  dyed  her 
delicate  cheek  as  red  as  Armstrong's  rose.  And 
suddenly  he^too,  flushed,  and  his  eyes  flashed. 

"I'm  sorry  I  disturbed  your  sister/'  said  he, 
'•but  I  hope  she  will  not  throw  any  more  things 


72  THE    MISSrONAKY    SHERIFF 

at  us.  We  will  try  not  to  practise  so  late  another 
night.  Good-morning/' 

"  I  am  sorry/'  said  Pauline  ;  "  tell  your  moth 
er  I'm  sorry,  please.  She  was  so  kind  to  me." 

"Thank  you/"  Armstrong  said,  heartily;  "I 
will."  And  somehow  before  he  went  they  shook 
hands. 

Pauline  gave  the  message,  but  she  felt  so 
guilty  because  of  this  last  courtesy  that  she  gave 
it  without  reproach,  even  though  her  only  good 
brush  disclosed  a  pitiful  crack. 

"Well,  you  know  why  I  did  it,"  said  Henri 
etta,  coolly;  "and  does  the  man  suppose  his 
playing  isn't  obnoxious  any  hour  of  the  day  as 
well  as  night  ?  But  let  us  hope  they  will  be 
quiet  awhile.  Paula,  have  you  any  money  ?  We 
ought  to  go  over  those  numbers  for  the  concert 
beforehand,  and  we  must  get  Verdi's  Requiem. 
Mysie  has  some,  but  she  wants  it  to  buy  cur 
tains.'' 

"  I'm  sorry,  sister  Etty,  but  I  haven't  a  cent." 

"Then  the  curtains  will  have  to  wait,  Mysie," 
said  Henriette,  cheerfully,  "  for  we  must  have 
the  music  to-morrow." 

Mysie  threw  a  deprecating  glance  at  Pauline. 
"  There  was  a  bargain  in  chintzes-/"  she  began, 
feebly,  "but  of  course,  sister,  if  Paula  doesn't 
mind — " 


THE    CABINET    ORGAN  73 

"I  don't  mind,  Mysie,"  said  Pauline. 

Why  should  she  make  Mysie  unhappy  and 
Henriette  cross  for  a  pair  of  cheap  curtains  ? 
The  day  was  beautiful,  and  she  attended  church. 
She  was  surprised,  looking  round  at  the  choir, 
to  discover  young  Armstrong  in  the  seat  behind 
her.  She  did  not  know  that  he  attended  that 
church.  But  surely  there  was  no  harm  in  a 
neighbor's  walking  home  with  Mysie  and  her. 
How  well  and  modestly  he  talked,  and  how  gen 
tle  and  deferential  he  was  to  Mysie !  Mysie 
sighed  when  he  parted  from  them,  a  little  way 
from  the  house. 

"  That  young  man  is  very  superior  to  his  sta 
tion/'  she  declared,  solemnly;  "he  must  be  of 
good  though  decayed  family." 

"His  grandfather  was  a  Vermont  farmer,  and 
ours  was  a  Massachusetts  farmer."  retorted  Pau 
line ;  "  I  dare  say  if  we  go  back  far  enough  we 
shall  find  the  Armstrongs  as  good  as  we — 

"  Oh,  pray  don't  talk  that  way  before  Etty, 
dear,"  interrupted  Mysie,  hurriedly  :  "  she  thinks 
it  so  like  the  anarchists  ;  and  if  you  get  into  that 
way  of  speech,  you  might  slip  out  something  be 
fore  her.  Poor  Etty,  I  wish  she  felt  as  if  she 
could  go  to  church.  I  hope  she  had  a  peaceful 
morning. " 

Ah,  hope  unfounded  !     Never  had  Miss  Hen- 


74  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

riette  Beaumont  passed  a  season  more  rasping  to 
her  nerves.  Looking  out  of  the  window,  she 
saw  both  the  younger  Armstrongs  and  their  moth 
er.  The  boys  had  been  picking  vegetables. 

"Now,  boys/'  called  Mrs.  Armstrong,  gayly, 
"let's  come  and  play  oil  the  organ." 

Henriette's  soul  was  in  arms.  Unfortunately 
she  was  still  in  the  robes  of  rest  (attempting  to 
slumber  after  her  tumultuous  night),  and  dig 
nity  forbade  her  shouting  out  of  the  window. 

The  two  boys  passed  a  happy  morning  experi 
menting  011  the  different  stops,  and  improvising 
melodies  of  their  own.  "Say,  mummy,  isn't 
that  kinder  like  a  tune?"  one  or  the  other  would 
exclaim.  Mrs.  Armstrong  listened  with  pride. 
The  awful  combination  of  discords  fell  sweetly 
on  her  ear,  which  was  "no  ear  for  music." 

"  It's  just  lovely  to  have  an  organ,"  she  thought. 

When  Miss  Beaumont  could  bear  no  more  she 
attired  herself  and  descended  the  stairs.  Then 
the  boys  stopped.  In  the  afternoon  several 
friends  of  the  Armstrongs  called.  They  sang 
Moody  and  Sankey  hymns,  until  Hen  riette  was 
pale  with  misery. 

"  I  think  I  prefer  the  untutored  Armstrong 
savages  themselves,  with  their  war-cries,"  she 
remarked. 

"Perhaps  they  will  get  tired  of  it."  Mysie  prof- 


NOW,  BOYS,  LET'S  COME  AND  PLAY  ON  THE  ORGAN  ' 


THE    CABINET    ORGAN  to 

fered  for  consolation.  But  they  did  not  tire. 
They  never*  played  later  than  nine  o'clock  at 
night  again,  but  until  that  hour  the  music-lov 
ing  and  unmusical  family  played  and  sang  to 
their  hearts'  content.  An.d  the  Beuumonts  saw 
them  at  the  Thomas  concert,  Ike  and  his  moth 
er  and  Jim,  applauding  everything,  lleiiriette 
said  the  sight  made  her  ill. 

Time  did  not  soften  her  rancor.  She  caught 
cold  at  the  concert,  and  for  two  weeks  was  con 
fined  to  her  chamber  with  what  Mrs.  Armstrong 
called  rheumatism,  but  Henriette  called  gout. 
During  the  time  she  assured  Mysie  that  what 
she  suffered  from  the  Armstrong  organ  exceeded 
anything  that  gout  could  inflict. 

"Do  let  me  speak  to  Mrs.  Armstrong,"  beg 
ged  Mysie. 

"  I  spoke  to  that  boy,  the  one  with  the  frec 
kles,  myself  yesterday,"  replied  Henriette,  "out 
of  the  window.  I  told  him  if  they  didn't  stop  I 
would  have  them  indicted." 

"  Why,  how  did  you  see  him  ?"  Mysie  was 
aghast,  but  she  dared  not  criticise  Henriette. 

"He  came  here  with  a  bucket  of  water.  Said 
his  mother  saw  us  taking  water  out  of  the  well, 
and  it  was  dangerous.  The  impertinent  woman, 
she  actually  offered  to  send  us  water  from  their 
cistern  every  day." 


76  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

"But  1  think  that  was  — was  rather  kind, 
sister,  and  it  would  be  dreadful  to  have  typhoid 
fever/" 

"I  would  rather  die  of  typhoid  fever  than 
have  that  woman  bragging  to  her  vulgar  friends 
that  she  gives  the  Beaumonts,  Governor  Beau 
mont's  daughters,  water!  I  know  what  her 
kindness  means."  Thus  Henriette  crushed  My- 
sie.  But  when  the  organ  began,  and  it  was 
evident  that  Tim  Armstrong  intended  to  learn 
'•Two  Little  Girls  in  Blue,"  if  it  took  him  all 
the  afternoon,  Mysie  rose. 

"Mysie,"  called  Henriette,  "  don't  you  go  one 
step  to  the  Armstrongs'." 

Mysie  sat  down,  but  in  a  little  while  she 
tried  again. 

"  I  wish  you'd  let  Paula,  then  ;  she  is  going 
by  there  every  day,  and  she  has  had  no  dispute 
with  them.  She  often  stops  to  talk." 

"Talk  to  whom  ?"  said  Henriette,  icily. 

"Oh,  to  any  of  them  —  Tim  or  Pete  or  Mrs. 
Armstrong. " 

"Does  she  talk  to  them  long  ?" 

o 

"Oh  no,  not  very  long  —  just  as  she  goes  by. 
I  think  you're  mistaken,  sister.  They  don't 
think  such  mean  things.  Truly  they  are — nice  ; 
they  seem  very  fond  of  each  other,  and  they 
almost  always  give  Paula  flowers." 


THE    CABINET    ORGAN  tl 

"  What  does  she  do  with  the  flowers  ?" 

"  She  puts  them  in  the  vases,  and  wears 
them/' 

"Do  they  give  her  anything  else  ?"  Henriettas 
tone  was  so  awful  that  Mysie  dropped  her  work. 
' '  Do  they  ?"  persisted  Henriette. 

"They  sent  over  the  magazines  a  few  times, 
but  that  was  just  borrowing,  and  once  they — 
they  —  sent  over  some  shortcake  and  some  — 
bread." 

Henriette  sat  bolt-upright  in  bed,  reckless  of 
the  pain  every  movement  gave  her. 

' '  Mysilla  Beaumont,  do  you  see  where  your 
sister  is  drifting  ?  Are  you  both  crazy  ?  But  I 
shall  put  a  stop  to  this  nonsense  this  very  day.  I 
am  going  to  write  a  note  to  John  Perley,  and 
you  will  have  to  take  it.  Bring  me  the  paper. 
If  there  isn't  any  in  my  desk,  take  some  out  of 
Pauline's." 

"Oh,  Henriette,"  whimpered  Mysie,  *£  whaf 
are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

"You  will  soon  see,  and  you  will  have  to  help 
me.  After  they  have  been  disgraced  and 
laughed  at,  we'll  see  whether  she  will  care  to 
lean  over  their  fence  and  talk  to  them." 

It  was  true  that  Pauline  did  talk  to  the  Arm 
strongs  ;  she  did  lean  over  the  Armstrong  fence. 
It  had  come  to  pass  by  degrees.  She  knew  per- 


78  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

fectly  well  it  was  wrong.  Henriette  never  al 
lowed  her  to  have  any  acquaintances.  But  Hen 
riette  could  not  see  her  from  the  bed,  and  Mysie 
did  not  mind  ;  and  so  she  fell  into  the  habit 
of  stopping  at  the  Armstrong  gate  to  inquire 
for  Mrs.  Armstrong's  turkeys,  or  to  ask  advice 
about  the  forlorn  little  geraniums  which  fought 
for  life  in  the  Beaumont  yard,  or  to  lend  her 
own  nimble  fingers  to  the  adorning  of  Mrs.  Arm 
strong's  bonnets.  She  saw  Ike  often.  Once  she 
actually  ventured  to  enter  "those  mechanics'" 
doors  and  play  on  the  detested  organ.  Her  mu 
sical  gifts  could  not  be  compared  to  her  sister's. 
A  sweet,  true  voice,  o e  no  great  compass,  a  touch 
that  had  only  sympathy  and  a  moderate  facility 
—these  the  highly  cultivated  Beaumonts  rated 
at  their  very  low  artistic  value  ;  but  the  ignorant 
Armstrongs  listened  to  Pauline's  hymns  in  rapt 
ure.  The  tears  filled  Mrs.  Armstrong's  eyes  : 
impulsively  she  kissed  the  girl.  "Oh,  you  dear 
child !"  she  cried.  Ike  said  nothing.  Not  a 
word.  He  was  standing  near  enough  to  Pauline 
to  touch  the  folds  of  her  dress.  His  fingers  al 
most  reverently  stroked  the  faded  pink  muslin. 
He  swallowed  something  that  was  choking  him. 
Joel  Armstrong  nodded  and  smiled.  Then  his 
eyes  sought  his  wife's.  He  put  out  his  hand  and 
held  hers.  AVhen  the  music  was  done  and  the 


TIIK    CABINET    ORGAN  79 

young  people  were  gone,  he  puffed  hard  on  his 
dead  pipe,  saying,  "It's  the  best  thing  that  can 
happen  to  a  young  man,  mother,  to  fall  in  love 
with  a  real  good  girl,  ain't  it  ?" 

"Yes,  I  guess  it  is." 

"  And  I  guess  you'd  have  the  training  of  this 
one,  mother  ;  and  there's  plenty  of  room  in  the 
lot  opposite  that's  for  sale  to  build  a  nice  little 
house.  They'd  start  a  sight  better  off  than  we 
did." 

"  But  we  were  very  happy,  Joe,  weren't  we  ?" 

"  That  we  were,  and  that  we  are,  Sally,"  said 
Armstrong.  "Come  on  out  in  the  garden  with 
your  beau  ;  we  ain't  going  to  let  the  young  folks 
do  all  the  courting." 

Mysie  and  Henrietta  saw  the  couple  walk 
ing  in  the  garden,  the  husband's  arm  around 
his  wife's  waist,  and  the  soft  -  hearted  sister 
sighed. 

"  Oh,  sister,  don't  you  kinder  wish  you  hadn't 
done  it 9"  she  whispered.  "They  didn't  mean 
any  harm." 

"Harm?  No.  I  dare  say  that  young  car 
penter  would  be  willing  to  marry  Pauline  Beau 
mont  !"  cried  Henriette,  bitterly. 

Mysie  shook  her  gray  head,  her  loose  mouth 
working,  while  she  winked  away  a  tear.  "I 
don't  care,  I  don't  care  " —  thus  did  she  inwardly 


THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 


moan  out  a  spasm  of  dire  resolution — ''I'm  just 
going  to  tell  Pauline  !" 

Perhaps  what  she  told  set  the  cloud  on  the 
girl's  pretty  face  ;  and  perhaps  that  was  why  she 
looked  eagerly  over  the  Armstrong  fence  every 
night ;  and  the  cloud  lifted  at  the  sound  of  Mrs. 
Armstrong's  mellow  voice  hailing  her  from  any 
part  of  the  house  or  yard. 

But  one  night,  instead  of  the  usual  cheerful 
stir  about  the  house,  she  found  the  Swede  girl 
alone  in  the  kitchen,  weeping  over  the  potatoes. 
To  Pauline's  inquiries  she  returned  a  burst  of 
woe.  "  They  all  tooken  to  chail — all  I"  she 
wailed.  "  I  don't  know  what  to  do  if  I  get  sup 
per.  The  mans  come,  the  police  mans,  and 
tooken  them  all  away.  /  hela  verlden  !  who  ever 
know  such  a  country  ?  Such  nice  peoples  sent 
to  chail  for  play  on  the  organ — their  own  organ  ! 
They  say  they  not  play  right,  but  I  think  to  send 
to  chail  for  not  play  right  on  the  organ  that 
sha'n't  be  right !" 

Pauline  could  make  nothing  more  out  of  her ; 
but  the  man  on  the  corner  looked  in  at  one  par 
ticularly  dolorous  burst  of  sobs  over  poor  Tim 
and  poor  Petey  and  tendered  his  version  : 
i(  They've  gone,  sure  enough,  miss.  Your  sis 
ters  have  had  them  arrested  for  keeping  and 
committing  a  nuisance.  Now,  I  ain't  stuck  on 


THE    CABINET    ORGAN  81 

their  organ -playing,  as  a  general  rule,  myself, 
but  I  wouldn't  go  so  far  as  to  call  it  a  nuisance. 
But  the  Fullers  ain't  on  the  best  of  terms  ;  old 
Fuller  is  a  crank,  and  there's  politics  between 
him  and  Armstrong  and  the  Delaneys,  who  have 
just  moved  into  the  neighborhood,  mother  and 
daughter  —  very  musical  folks,  they  say,  and 
nervous  ;  they  have  joined  in  with  your  sister — 

"  Where  have  they  gone  ?"  asked  Pauline,  who 
was  very  pale. 

"  To  the  police  court.  They  were  mighty  cun 
ning,  if  you'll  excuse  me,  miss.  They  picked 
out  that  old  German  crank,  Von  Reibnitz,  who 
plays  in  the  Schubert  Quartet,  and  loves  music 
better  than  beer." 

The  man  was  right.  Henriette  had  chosen 
her  lawgiver  shrewdly.  At  this  very  moment 
she  was  sitting  in  one  of  the  dingy  chairs  of  the 
police  court,  with  the  mien  of  Marie  Antoinette 
on  her  way  to  execution.  Mysie  sat  beside  her 
in  misery  not  to  be  described ;  for  was  she  not 
joined  with  Henriette  in  the  prosecution  of  the 
unfortunate  Armstrongs?  and  had  she  not  sur 
reptitiously  partaken  of  hot  rolls  and  strawberry 
jam  that  very  day,  handed  over  the  fence  to  her 
by  Mrs.  Armstrong  ?  She  could  not  sustain  the 
occasional  glare  of  the  magistrate's  glasses;  and, 
unable  to  look  in  the  direction  of  the  betrayed 


82  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

Armstrongs,  for  the  most  part  she  peered  deso 
lately  at  the  clerk.  The  accused  sat  opposite. 
Mr.  Armstrong  and  Ike  were  in  their  working- 
clothes.  Hastily  summoned,  they  had  not  the 
meagre  comfort  of  a  toilet.  The  father  looked 
about  the  court,  a  perplexed  frown  replacing  at 
intervals  a  perplexed  grin.  When  he  was  not 
studying  the  court-room,  he  was  polishing  the 
bald  spot  on  his  head  with  a  large  red  handker 
chief,  or  rubbing  the  grimy  palms  of  his  hands 
on  the  sides  of  his  trousers.  He  had  insisted 
upon  an  immediate  trial,  but  his  wits  had  not 
yet  pulled  themselves  out  of  the  shock  of  his  ar 
rest.  The  boys  varied  the  indignant  solemnity 
of  bearing  which  their  mother  had  impressed  on 
them  with  the  unquenchable  interest  of  their 
age.  Mrs.  Armstrong  had  assumed  her  best  bon 
net  and  her  second-best  gown.  She  was  a  hand 
some  woman,  with  her  fair  skin,  her  wavy  brown 
hair,  and  brilliant  blue  eyes;  and  the  reporter 
looked  at  her  often,  adding  to  the  shame  and 
fright  that  were  clawing  her  under  her  Spartan 
composure.  But  she  held  her  head  in  the  air 
bravely.  Not  so  her  son,  who  sat  with  his  hands 
loosely  clasped  before  him  and  his  head  sunk  on 
his  breast  through  the  entire  arraignment. 

Behind  the  desk  the  portly  form  of  the  mag 
istrate  filled  an  arm-chair  to  overflowing,  so  that 


THE    CABINET    ORGAN 


83 


the  reporter  wondered  whether  he  could  rise  from 
the  chair,  should  it  be  necessary,  or  whether  chair 
and  he  must  perforce  cling  together.  His  body 
and  arms  were  long,  but  his  legs  were  short,  so 
he  always  used  a  cricket,  which  somehow  de 
tracted  from  the  dignity  of  his  appearance.  He 
had  been  a  soldier,  and  kept  a  martial  gray  mus 
tache  ;  but  he  wore  a  wig  of  lustrous  brown 
locks,  which  he  would  push  from  side  to  side  in 
the  excitement  of  a  case,  and  then  clap  frankly 
back  into  place  with  both  hands.  There  was  no 
deceit  about  Fritz  Von  Reibnitz.  He  was  a  man 
of  fiery  prejudices,  but  of  good  heart  and  sound 
sense,  and  he  often  was  shrewder  than  the  law 
yers  who  tried  to  lead  him  through  his  weak 
nesses.  But  he  had  a  leaning  towards  a  kind  of 
free-hand,  Arabian  justice,  and  rather  followed 
the  spirit  of  the  law  than  servilely  questioned 
what  might  be  the  letter.  Twirling  his  mus- 
tachios,  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  studied 
the  faces  of  the  Armstrong  family,  while  the 
clerk  read  the  information  slowly — for  the  ben 
efit  of  his  friend  the  reporter,  who  felt  this  to 
be  one  of  the  occasions  that  enliven  a  dusty  road 
of  life. 

"  State  of  Iowa,  Winfioid  County.  The  City 
of  Fairport  vs.  Jos.  L.  Armstrong,  Mrs.  J.  L. 
Armstrong,  Isaac  J.  Armstrong,  Peter  Arm- 


84  THE    MISSIONAltY    SHERIFF 

strong,  and  Timothy  Armstrong.  The  defend 
ants"  (the  names  were  repeated,  and  at  each 
name  the  mother  of  the  Armstrongs  winced) 
"are  accused  of  the  crime  of  violating  Section  2 
of  Chapter  41  of  the  ordinances  of  said  city. 
For  that  the  defendants,  on  the  3d,  the  10th, 
the  15th,  and  23d  day  of  July,  18 — ,  in  the  city 
of  Fairport,  in  said  county,  did  conspire  and 
confederate  together  to  disturb  the  public  quiet 
of  the  neighborhood,  and  in  pursuance  of  said 
conspiracy,  and  aiding  and  abetting  each  other, 
did  make,  then  and  there,  loud  and  unusual 
noises  by  playing  on  a  cabinet  organ  in  an  un 
usual  and  improper  manner,  and  by  singing 
boisterously  and  out  of  tune  ;  and  did  thereby 
disturb  the  public  quiet  of  the  neighborhood, 
contrary  to  the  ordinances  in  such  case  pro 
vided/' 

"  You  vill  read  also  the  ordinance,  Mr.  Clerk," 
called  the  magistrate,  with  much  majesty  of  man 
ner,  frowning  at  the  same  time  on  the  younger 
lawyers,  who  were  unable  to  repress  their  feel 
ings,  while  the  reporter  appeared  to  be  taken 
with  cramps. 

The  clerk  read  : 

"Every  person  who  shall  unlawfully  disturb 
the  public  quiet  of  any  street,  alley,  avenue,  pub 
lic  square,  wharf,  or  any  religious  or  other  public 


THE    CABINET    ORGAN  85 

assembly,  or  building  public  or  private,  or  any 
neighborhood,  private  family,  or  person  within 
the  city,  by  giving  false  alarms  of  fire "  (Mrs. 
Armstrong  audibly  whispered  to  her  husband, 
"We  never  did  that!"),  "by  loud  or  unusual 
noises"  (Mrs.  Armstrong  sank  back  in  her  cor 
ner,  and  Joseph  Armstrong  very  nearly  groaned 
aloud),  "by  ringing  bells,  blowing  horns  or  other 
instruments,  etc.,  etc.,  shall  be  deemed  guilty  of 
a  misdemeanor,  and  punished  accordingly." 

Then  up  rose  the  attorney  for  the  prosecution 
to  state  his  case.  He  narrated  how  the  Arm 
strong  family  had  bought  an  organ,  and  had 
played  upon  it  almost  continually  since  the  pur 
chase,  thereby  greatly  annoying  and  disturbing 
the  entire  neighborhood.  He  said  that  no  mem 
ber  of  the  Armstrong  family  knew  more  than  two 
changes  on  the  organ,  and  that  several  of  them, 
in  addition  to  playing,  were  accustomed  to  sing 
in  a  loud  and  disagreeable  voice  (the  Armstrong- 
family  were  visibly  affected),  and  that  so  great 
was  the  noise  and  disturbance  made  by  the  said 
organ  that  the  prosecuting  witness,  Miss  Beau 
mont,  who  was  sick  at  the  time,  had  been  agi 
tated  and  disturbed  by  it,  to  her  great  bodily  and 
mental  damage  and  danger.  That  although  re 
quested  to  desist,  they  had  not  desisted  (Tim 
and  Pete  exchanged  glances  of  undissembled 


THK    MISSION  All  Y    SHERIFF 

enjoyment),  and  therefore  she  was  compelled  in 
self-defence  to  invoke  the  aid  of  the  law. 

Ike  listened  dully.  There  was  no  humor  in 
the  situation  for  him.  He  felt  himself  and  his 
whole  family  disgraced,  dragged  before  the  po 
lice  magistrate  just  like  a  common  drunk  and 
disorderly  loafer,  and  accused  of  being  a  nui 
sance  to  their  neighborhood  ;  the  shame  of  it 
tingled  to  his  finger  -  tips.  He  would  not  look 
up;  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  never  hold 
up  his  head  again.  No  doubt  it  would  all  be  in 
the  paper  next  morning,,  and  the  Armstrongs, 
who  were  so  proud  of  their  honest  name,  would  be 
the  laughing-stock  of  the  town.  Somebody  was 
saying  something  about  a  lawyer.  Ike  scowled 
at  the  faces  of  the  young  attorneys  lolling  and 
joking  outside  the  railing.  "I  won't  fool  away 
any  money  on  those  chumps,"  he  groAvled  ;  "  I 
want  to  get  through  and  pay  rny  fine  and  be 
done." 

Somebody  laughed ;  then  he  saw  that  it  was 
the  sheriff  of  the  county,  a  good  friend  of  his. 
He  looked  appealingly  up  at  the  strong,  dark 
face ;  he  grasped  the  big  hand  extended. 

"  Fm  in  a  hole,  Mr.  Wickliff,"  he  whispered. 

"Naw,  you're  not,"  replied  Wickliff  ;  "you've 
a  friend  in  the  family.  She  got  onto  this  plot 
and  came  to  me  a  good  while  ago.  We're  all 


THE   CABINET    ORGAN  87 

ready.  I've  known  her  since  she  was  a  little 
girl.  Know  'em  all,  poor  things !  Say,  let  me 
act  as  your  attorney.  Don't  have  to  be  a  mem 
ber  of  the  bar  to  practise  in  this  court.  Y'Hon- 
or  !  If  it  please  y'Honor,  Fd  like  to  be  excused 
to  telephone  to  some  witnesses  for  the  de 
fence.'7 

Ike  caught  his  breath.  "  A  friend  in  the  fam 
ily  I"  He  did  not  dare  to  think  what  that  meant. 
And  Wickliff  had  gone.  They  were  examining 
the  prosecuting  witnesses.  Miss  Mysilla  Beau 
mont  took  the  oath,  plainly  frightened.  She 
spoke  almost  in  a  whisper.  Her  evident  desire 
to  deal  gently  with  the  Armstrongs  was  used 
skilfully  by  the  young  attorney  whom  John  Per- 
ley  (his  uncle)  had  employed.  Behold  (he  made 
poor  Mysie's  evidence  seem  to  say)  what  ear-rend 
ing  and  nerve-shattering  sounds  these  barbarous 
organists  must  have  produced  to  make  this  ami 
able  lady  protest  at  law  !  Mysie  fluttered  out  of 
the  witness  -  box  in  a  tremor,  nor  dared  to  look 
where  Mrs.  Armstrong  sat  bridling  and  fanning 
herself.  Next  three  Fullers  deposed  to  more  or 
less  disturbance  from  the  musical  taste  of  the 
Armstrongs,  and  the  Delaney  daughter  swore,  in 
a  clarion  voice,  that  the  playing  of  the  Arm 
strongs  was  the  worst  ever  known. 

"It  ain't  any  worse  than  her  scales  I"  cried 


*'s  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

Mrs.  Armstrong,  goaded  into  speech.  The  mag 
istrate  darted  a  warning  glance  at  her. 

Miss  Henriette  Beaumont  was  called  last. 
Her  mourning  garments,  to  masculine  eyes,  did 
not  show  their  age  ;  and  her  grand  manner  and 
handsome  face,  with  its  gray  hair  and  its  flash 
ing  eyes,  caused  even  the  magistrate's  manner  to 
change.  Henriette  had  a  rich  voice  and  a  beau 
tiful  articulation.  Every  softly  spoken  word 
reached  Mrs.  Armstrong,  who  writhed  in  her 
seat.  She  recited  how  she  had  spent  hours  of 
"absolute  torment"  under  the  Armstrong  in 
strumentation,  and  she  described  in  the  language 
of  the  musician  the  unspeakable  iniquities  of  the 
Armstrong  technique.  Her  own  lawyer  could 
not  understand  her,  but  the  magistrate  nodded 
in  sympathy.  She  said  she  was  unable  to  sleep 
nights  because  of  the  "  horrible  discords  played 
on  the  organ — " 

"  I  declare  we  never  played  it  but  two  nights, 
and  they  weren't  discords  ;  they  were  nice  tunes," 
sobbed  Mrs.  Armstrong. 

The  justice  rapped  and  frowned.  "  Silence  in 
der  court  I"  he  thundered.  Then  he  glared  on 
poor  Mrs.  Armstrong.  "Anybody  vot  calls  his- 
self  a  laty  ought  to  behave  itself  like  sooch  I"  he 
said,  with  strong  emphasis.  The  attorneys  pres 
ent  choked  and  coughed.  In  fact,  the  remark 


THE    CABINET    ORGAN  89 

passed  into  a  saying  in  police-court  circles.  Miss 
Henriette  stepped  with  stately  graciousness  to 
her  seat. 

"Und  now  der  defence,"  said  the  justice — 
"'  der  Armstrong  family.  Vot  has  you  got  to 
say  ?" 

"Let  me  put  some  witnesses  on  first,  Judge," 
called  Wickliff,  "to  show  the  Armstrongs''  char 
acter."  He  was  opening  the  door,  and  the  hall 
behind  seemed  filled. 

"  Oh,  good  land,  Ikey,  do  look  !"  quavered 
Mrs.  Armstrong;  ••'there's  pa's  boss,  and  the 
Martins  that  used  to  live  in  the  same  block  with 
us,  and  Mrs.  O'Toole,  and  all  the  neighbors  most 
up  to  the  East  End,  and — oh,  Ikey  !  there's  Miss 
Pauline  herself  !  Our  friends  'ain't  deserted  us  ; 
I  knew  perfectly  well  they  wouldn't  /" 

Ike  did  look  up  then — he  stood  up.  His  eyes 
met  the  eyes  of  his  sweetheart,  and  he  sat 
down  with  his  cheeks  afire  and  his  head  in 
the  air. 

••In  the  first  place,"  said  Wickliff,  assuming 
an  easy  attitude,  with  one  hand  in  a  pocket  and 
the  other  free  for  oratorical  display,  "  I'll  call 
Miss  Beaumont,  Miss  Henriette  Beaumont,  for 
the  defence."  Miss  Beaumont  responded  to  the 
call,  and  turned  a  defiant  stare  on  the  amateur 
attorney. 


90  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

"Yon  say   you  Avere  disturbed   by  the  Arm 
strongs'  organ  ?" 

"I  was  painfully  disturbed." 

"  Naturally  you  informed  your  neighbors,  and 
asked  them  to  desist  playing  the  organ  ?" 

"I  did." 

"  How  many  times  ?" 

"Once." 

"To  whom  did  you  speak  ?" 

"I  told  the  boys  to  tell  their  mother." 

"Are  you  passionately  fond  of  music  ?" 

"lam." 

"  Are  you  sensitive  to  bad  music — acutely  sen 
sitive  ?" 

"  I  suppose  I  am  ;  a  lover  of  music  is,  of  neces 
sity." 

The  magistrate  nodded  and  sighed. 

"  Are  you  of  a  particularly  patient  and  for 
bearing  disposition  ?"  Henriette  directed  a 
withering  glance  at  the  tall  figure  of  the  ques 
tioner. 

"I  am  forbearing  enough,"  she  answered. 
"  Do  I  need  to  answer  questions  that  are  plainly 
put  to  insult  me  ?" 

"No,  madam,"  said  the  magistrate.  "Mr. 
Wickliff,  I  rules  dot  question  out." 

Nothing  daunted,  Wickliff  continued  :  "  When 
you  gave  the  boys  warning,  where  Avere  they  ?" 


THE    CABINET    OltUAN  91 

"Iii  my  house." 

<f  How  came  they  there  ?" 

"They  had  brought  over  a  bucket  of  water.'' 

"  Why  ?" 

"  Because  we  had  only  well-water,  they  said." 

"  That  was  rather  kind  on  the  part  of  Mrs. 
Armstrong,  don't  you  think  ?  In  every  respect, 
besides  playing  the  organ,  she  was  a  kind  neigh 
bor,  wasn't  she  ?" 

"I  don't  complain  of  her.'' 

"Wasn't  she  rather  noted  in  the  neighbor 
hood  as  a  lady  of  great  kindness  ?  Didn't  she 
often  send  in  little  delicacies — flowers,  fruit,  and 
such  things — gifts  that  of  ten  pass  between  neigh 
bors  to  different  people  ?" 

"  She  may  have.  I  am  not  acquainted  with 
her." 

"  Hasn't  she  sent  in  things  at  different  times 
to  you  ?" 

Henriette's  throat  began  to  form  the  word  no ; 
then  she  remembered  the  shortcake,  she  remem 
bered  the  roses,  she  remembered  her  oath,  and 
she  choked.  "  I  don't  know  much  about  it ; 
perhaps  she  may  have,"  said  she. 

"That  will  do,"  said  Wickliif.  "Call  Miss 
Mysilla  Beaumont."  Wickliff's  respectful  bear 
ing  reassured  the  agitated  spinster.  He  wouldn't 
detain  her  a  moment.  lie  only  wanted  to  know 


92  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

had  neighborly  courtesies  passed  between  the 
two  houses.  Yes  ?  Had  Mrs.  Armstrong  been 
a  kind  and  unobtrusive  neighbor  ? 

"  Oh  yes,  sir  ;  yes,  indeed/7  cried  poor  Mysie. 

'•  Were  you  yourself  much  disturbed  by  the 
organ  ?" 

"  No,  sir,"  gasped  Mysie,  with  one  tragic 
glance  at  her  sister's  stony  features.  She  knew 
now  what  Jeanie  Deans  must  have  suffered. 

"That  will  do/' said  Wickliff. 

Then  a  procession  of  witnesses  filed  into  the 
narrow  space  before  the  railing.  First  the  em 
ployer  of  the  elder  Armstrong  gave  his  high 
praise  of  his  foreman  as  a  man  and  a  citizen; 
then  came  the  neighbors,  declaring  the  Arm 
strong  virtues — from  Mrs.  Martin,  who  deposed 
with  tears  that  Mrs.  Armstrong's  courage  and  good 
nursing  had  saved  her  little  Willy's  life  when  he 
was  burned,  to  Mrs.  O'Toole,  an  aged  little  Irish 
woman,  who  recited  how  the  brave  young  Peter 
had  rescued  her  dog  from  a  band  of  young  tort 
urers.  "And  they  had  a  tin  can  filled  with 
fire-crackers,  yer  Honor  (an' they  was  lighted), 
tied  to  the  poor  stoompy  tail  of  him  ;  but  Petey 
he  pulled  it  aff,  and  he  thro  wed  itferninst  them, 
and  he  made  them  sorry  that  day,  he  did,  for  it 
bursted.  He's  a  foine  bye,  and  belongs  to  a 
foine  family  !" 


THE    CABINET    ORGAN  93 

"Aren't  you  a  little  prejudiced  in  favor  of  the 
Armstrongs,  Mrs.  O'Toole  ?"  asked  the  prosecut 
ing  attorney,  as  Wickliff  smilingly  bade  him 
"take  the  witness." 

"  Yes,  sor,  I  am,"  cried  Mrs.  O'Toole,  huddling 
her  shawl  closer  about  her  wiry  little  frame.  "  I 
am  that,  sor,  praise  God  !  They  paid  the  rint 
for  me  whin  me  bye  was  in  throuble,  and  they 
got  him  wur-rk,  and  he's  doin'  well  this  day, 
and  been  for  three  year.  And  there's  many 
a  hot  bite  passed  betwane  us  whin  we  was  neigh 
bors.  Prejudeeced  !  I'd  not  be  wuth  the  crow's 
pickin's  if  I  wasn't  ;  and  the  back  of  me  hand 
and  the  sowl  of  me  fut  to  thim  that's  persecuting 
of  thim  this  day  !" 

"  Call  Miss  Pauline  Beaumont,"  said  Wickliff. 


"That  will  do,  grandma." 


Pauline's  evidence  was  very  concise,  but  to  the 
point.  She  did  not  consider  the  Armstrong 
organ  a  nuisance.  She  believed  the  Armstrongs, 
if  instructed,  would  learn  to  play  the  organ.  It' 
the  window  were  shut  the  noise  could  not  dis 
turb  any  one.  She  had  the  highest  respect  and 
regard  for  the  Armstrongs. 

"'There's  my  case,  your  Honor," said  Wickliff, 
"and  I've  confidence  enough  in  it  and  in  this 
court  to  leave  it  in  your  hands.  Say  the  same. 
Johnny  ?" — to  the  young  lawyer.  Perley  laughed ; 


94  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

he  was  beginning  to  suspect  that  not  all  the 
case  appeared  on  the  surface.  Perhaps  the  Beau 
mont  family  peace  would  fare  all  the  better  if  he 
kept  his  hands  off.  lie  said  that  he  had  no  evi 
dence  to  offer  in  rebuttal,  and  would  leave  the 
case  confidently  to  the  wisdom  of  the  court. 

"  And  Pll  bet  you  a  hat  on  one  thing,  Amos," 
he  observed  in  an  undertone  to  the  amateur  at 
torney  on  the  other  side,  "  Fritz's  decision  on 
this  case  may  be  good  sense,  but  it  will  be  awful 
queer  law." 

"Fritz  has  got  good  sense,"  said  Amos. 

The  magistrate  announced  his  decision.  He 
had  deep  sympathy,  he  said,  for  the  complainant, 
a  gifted  and  estimable  lady.  He  knew  that  the 
musical  temperament  was  sensitive  as  the  violin 
— yes.  But  it  also  appeared  from  the  evidence 
that  the  Armstrong  family  were  a  good,  a  worthy 
family,  lacking  only  a  knowledge  of  music  to 
make  them  acceptable  neighbors.  Therefore  he 
decided  that  the  Armstrong  family  should  hire  a 
competent  teacher,  and  that,  until  able  to  play 
without  giving  offence  to  the  neighbors,  they 
should  close  the  window.  With  that  under 
standing  he  would  find  the  defendants  not  guilty  ; 
and  each  party  must  pay  its  own  costs. 

Perley  glanced  at  Amos,  who  grinned  and  re 
peated,  "Fritz  has  got  good  sense." 


THEY   HAVE  ENGAGED   ME 


THE    CABINET    ORGAN  95 

"I'd  have  won  my  hat/'  said  Perley,  "but 
I'm  not  kicking.  Just  look  at  Miss  Beaumont, 
though/' 

Henriette  had  listened  in  stony  calm.  She 
did  not  once  look  at  Pauline,  who  was  standing 
at  the  other  side  of  the  room.  "  Come,  sister/' 
she  said  to  Mysie.  Mysie  turned  a  scared  face 
on  Henriette.  She  drew  her  aside. 

"  Did  you  hear  what  he  said  ?"  she  whispered. 
" Oh,  Henriette,  what  shall  we  do?  We  shall 
have  to  pay  the  costs— 

"The  Armstrongs  will  have  to  pay  them  too/' 
said  Henriette,  grimly. 

"  Theirs  won't  be  so  much,  because  none  of 
their  witnesses  will  take  a  cent ;  but  the  Fullers 
and  Miss  Delaney  want  their  fees,  and  it's  a  dol 
lar  and  a  half,  and  there's — 

"We  shall  have  to  borrow  it  from  John  Per 
ley,"  said  Henriette. 

"  But  he  isn't  here,  and  maybe  they'll  put  us 
in  jail  if  we  don't  pay.  Oh,  Henriette,  why  did 
you—" 

This,  Mysie's  first  and  last  reproach  of  her 
sovereign,  was  cut  short  by  the  approach  of 
Pauline. 

At  her  side  walked  young  Armstrong.  And 
Pauline,  who  used  to  be  so  timid,  presented  him 
without  a  tremor. 


96  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you,  Miss  Beaumont,"  said 
Ike,  "that  I  did  not  understand  that  we  were 
disturbing  you  so  much  when  you  were  sick. 
Not  being  musical,  we  could  not  appreciate  what 
we  were  making  you  suffer.  But  I  beg  you  to 
believe,  ma'am,  that  we  are  all  very  sorry.  And 
I  didn't  think  it  no  more  than  right  that  I  should 
pay  all  the  costs  of  this  case — which  I  have  done 
gladly.  I  hope  you  will  forgive  us,  and  that  we 
may  all  of  us  live  as  good  neighbors  in  future. 
We  will  try  not  to  annoy  you,  and  we  have  en 
gaged  a  very  fine  music-teacher.'7 

" They  have  engaged  me"  said  Pauline.  And 
as  she  spoke  she  let  the  young  man  very  gently 
draw  her  hand  into  his  arm. 


HIS   DUTY 


HIS   DUTY 


A  MOS  WICKLIFF  little  suspected  himself 
A\  riding,  that  sunny  afternoon,  towards 
the  ghastliest  adventure  of  an  adventu 
rous  life.  Nevertheless,  he  was  ill  at  ease.  His 
horse  was  too  light  for  his  big  muscles  and  his 
six  feet  two  of  bone.  Being  a  merciful  man  to 
beasts,  he  could  not  ride  beyond  a  jog-trot,  and 
his  soul  was  fretted  by  the  delay.  He  cast  a 
scowl  down  the  dejected  neck  of  the  pony  to 
its  mournful,  mismated  ears,  and  from  thence 
back  at  his  own  long  legs,  which  nearly  scraped 
the  ground.  "  0  Lord  !  ain't  I  a  mark  on  this 
horse  !"  he  groaned.  "  We  could  make  money 
in  a  circus  !"  With  a  gurgle  of  disgust  he  looked 
about  him  at  the  glaring  blue  sky,  at  the  meas 
ureless,  melancholy  sweep  of  purple  and  dun 
prairie. 

"Well,  give  me  Iowa !"  said  Amos. 

For   a   long    while    he    rode    in    silence,  but 


100  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

his  thoughts  were  distinct  enough  for  words. 
"What  an  amusing  little  scamp  it  was!" — thus 
they  ran — "  I  believe  he  could  mimic  anything 
on  earth.  He  used  to  give  a  cat  and  puppy 
fighting  that  I  laughed  myself  nearly  into  a  fit 
over.  When  I  think  of  that  I  hate  this  job. 
Now  why  ?  You  never  saw  the  fellow  to  speak 
to  him  more  than  twice.  Duty,  Amos,  duty. 
But  if  he  is  as  decent  as  he's  got  the  name  of  be 
ing  here,  it's  rough—  Hullo!  River?  Trees?" 
The  river  might  be  no  more  than  the  lightening 
rim  of  the  horizon  behind  the  foliage,  but  there 
was  no  mistake  about  the  trees  ;  and  when  Wick- 
liff  turned  the  field-glass,  which  he  habitually 
carried,  on  them  he  could  make  out  not  only  the 
river  and  the  willows,  but  the  walls  of  a  cabin 
and  the  lovely  undulations  of  a  green  field  of 
corn.  Half  an  hour's  riding  brought  him  to  the 
house  and  a  humble  little  garden  of  sweet-pease 
and  hollyhocks.  Amos  groaned.  "How  cursed 
decent  it  all  looks  !  And  flowers  too  !  I  have 
no  doubt  that  his  wife's  a  nice  woman,  and  the 
baby  has  a  clean  face.  Everything  certainly 
does  combine  to  ball  me  up  on  this  job  !  There 
she  is  ;  and  she's  nice  !" 

A  woman  in  a  clean  print  gown,  with  a  child 
pulling  at  her  skirt,  had  run  to  the  gate.  She 
looked  young.  Her  freckled  face  was  not  ex- 


HIS    DUTY 


actly  pretty,  but  there  was  something  engaging 
in  the  flash  of  her  white  teeth  and  her  soft,  black- 
lashed,  dark  eyes.  She  held  the  gate  wide  open, 
with  the  hospitality  of  the  West.  "  Won't  yon 
'light,  stranger  ?"  she  called. 
.  "I'm  bound  for  here,"  replied  Amos,  telling 
his  prepared  tale  glibly.  "  This  is  Mr.  Brown's, 
the  photographer's,  ain't  it  ?  I  want  him  to 
come  to  the  settlement  with  me  and  take  me 
standing  on  a  deer.  " 

"Yes,  sir."  The  woman  spoke  in  mellow 
Southern  accents,  and  she  began  to  look  inter 
ested,  as  suspecting  a  romance  under  this  vain 
glory.  "'  Yes,  sir.  Deer  you  shot,  I  reckon. 
I'll  send  Johnny  D.  for  him.  Oh,  Johnny  D.  !" 

A  lath  of  a  boy  of  ten,  with  sunburnt  white 
hair  and  bright  eyes,  vaulted  over  a  fence  and 
ran  to  her,  receiving  her  directions  to  go  find 
uncle  after  lie  had  cared  for  the  gentleman's 
horse. 

"'Your  nephew,  madam  ?"  said  Amos,  as  the 
lad's  bare  soles  twinkled  in  the  air. 

"Well,  no,  sir,  not  born  nephew,"  she  said, 
smiling  ;  "  he's  a  little  neighbor  boy.  His  folks 
live  three  miles  further  down  the  river  ;  but  I 
reckon  we  all  think  jest  as  much  of  him  as  if  he 
was  our  born  kin.  Won't  you  come  in,  sir  ?" 

By  this  time  she  had  passed  under  the  luxuri- 


102  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

ant  arbor  of  honeysuckle  that  shaded  the  porch, 
and  she  threw  wide  the  door.  The  room  was 
large.  It  was  very  tidy.  The  furniture  was  of 
the  sort  that  can  he  easily  transported  where 
railways  have  to  be  pieced  out  with  mule  trails. 
But  it  was  hardly  the  ordinary  pioneer  cabin. 
N^ot  because  there  was  a  sewing-machine  in  one 
corner,,  for  the  sewing-machine  follows  hard  on 
the  heels  of  the  plough  ;  perhaps  because  of  the 
white  curtains  at  the  two  windows  (curtains 
darned  and  worn  thin  by  washing,  tied  back 
with  ribbons  faded  by  the  same  ministry  of  neat 
ness),  or  the  square  of  pretty  though  cheap  car 
pet  on  the  floor,  or  the  magazines  and  the  bunch 
of  sweet-pease  on  the  table,  but  most  because  of 
the  multitude  of  photographs  on  the  clumsy 
walls.  They  were  on  cards,  all  of  the  same  size 
(not  more  than  8  by  10  inches),  protected  by 
glass,  and  framed  in  mossy  twigs.  Some  of  the 
pictures  were  scenes  of  the  country,  many  of 
them  bits  of  landscape  near  the  house,  all  chosen 
with  a  marvellous  elimination  of  the  usual  gro 
tesque  freaks  of  the  camera,  and  with  such  an 
unerring  eye  for  subject  and  for  light  and  shade 
that  the  artist's  visions  of  the  flat,  commonplace 
country  were  not  only  picturesque  but  poetic. 
In  the  prints  also  were  an  extraordinary  richness 
and  range  of  tone.  It  did  not  seem  possible  that 


HIS    DUTY  103 

mere  black  and  white  could  give  such  an  effect 
of  brilliancy  and  depth  of  color.  An  artist  look 
ing  over  this  obscure  photographer's  workman 
ship  might  feel  a  thrill  like  that  which  crinkles 
a  flower-lover's  nerves  when  he  sees  a  mass  of 
azaleas  in  fresh  bloom. 

Amos  was  not  an  artist,  but  he  had  a  camera  at 
home,,  and  he  gave  a  gulp  of  admiration.  "  Well, 
he  is  great  !''  he  sighed.  "  That  beats  any  photo 
graphic  work  I  ever  saw." 

The  wife's  eyes  were  luminous.  ''Ain't  he  !" 
said  she.  "  It  'most  seems  wicked  for  him  to  be 
farming  when  he  can  do  things  like  that — 

"  Why  does  he  farm  ?" 

"It's  his  health.  He  caynt  stand  the  climate 
East." 

"  You  are  from  the  South  yourself,  I  take  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  Arkansas,  though  I  don't  see  how 
ever  you  guessed  it.  I  met  Mist'  Brown  there, 
down  in  old  Lawrence.  I  was  teaching  school 
then,  and  went  to  have  my  picture  taken  in  his 
wagon.  Went  with  my  father,  and  he  was  so 
pleasant  and  polite  to  paw  I  liked  him  from  the 
start.  He  nursed  paw  during  his  last  sickness. 
Then  we  were  married  and  came  out  here — 
You're  looking  at  that  piture  of  little  Davy  at 
the  well  ?  I  like  that  the  best  of  all  the  ten  ;  his 
little  dress  looks  so  cute,  and  he  has  such  a  sweet 


104  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

smile ;  and  it's  the  only  one  has  his  hair  smooth. 
I  tell  Mist'  Brown  I  do  believe  he  musses  that 
child's  hair  himself — " 

"  Papa  make  Baby's  hair  pitty  for  picture  !" 
cried  the  child,  delighted  to  have  understood 
some  of  the  conversation. 

"  He's  a  very  pretty  boy/'  said  Amos.  "'Fraid 
to  come  to  me,  young  feller  ?" 

But  the  child  saw  too  few  to  be  shy,  and  hap 
pily  perched  himself  on  the  tall  man's  shoulder, 
while  he  studied  the  pictures.  The  mother  ap 
peared  as  often  as  the  child. 

"He's  got  her  at  the  best  every  time,"  mused 
the  observer ;  "  best  side  of  her  face,  best  light 
on  her  nose.  Never  misses.  That's  the  way  a 
man  looks  at  his  girl ;  always  twists  his  eyes  a 
little  so  as  to  get  the  best  view.  Plainly  she's  in 
love  with  him,  and  looks  remarkably  like  he  was 
in  love  with  her,  damn  him  !"  Then,  with  great 
civility,  he  asked  Mrs.  Brown  what  developer  her 
husband  used,  and  listened  attentively,  while  she 
showed  him  the  tiny  dark  room  leading  out  of 
the  apartment,  and  exhibited  the  meagre  stock 
of  drugs. 

"I  keep  them  up  high  and  locked  up  in  that 
cupboard  with  the  key  on  top,  for  fear  Baby 
might  git  at  them,"  she  explained.  She  evi 
dently  thought  them  a  rare  and  creditable  col- 


HIS    DUTY  105 

lection.  l{  I  ain't  a  bit  afraid  of  Johnny  D.;  he's 
sensible,  and,  besides,  he  minds  every  word  Mist' 
Brown  tells  him.  He  sets  the  world  by  Mist" 
Brown ;  always  has  ever  since  the  day  Mist' 
Brown  saved  him  from  drowning  in  the  eddy." 

• '  How  was  that  ?" 

"  Why,  you  see,  he  was  out  fishing,  and  climbed 
out  on  a  log  and  slipped  someway.  It's  about 
two  miles  further  down  the  river,  between  his 
parents'  farm  and  ours ;  and  by  a  God's  mercy 
we  were  riding  by,  Dave  and  the  baby  and  I — 
the  baby  wasn't  out  of  long-clothes  then  —  and 
we  heard  the  scream.  Dave  jumped  out  and  ran, 
peeling  his  clothes  as  he  ran.  I  only  waited  to 
throw  the  weight  out  of  the  wagon  to  hold  the 
horses,  and  ran  after  him.  I  could  see  him 
plain  in  the  water.  Oh,  it  surely  was  a  dreadful 
sight  !  I  dream  of  it  nights  sometimes  yet ;  and 
he's  there  in  the  water,  with  his  wet  hair  stream 
ing  over  his  eyes,  and-  his  eyes  sticking  out, 
and  his  lips  blue,  fighting  the  current  with  one 
hand,  and  drifting  off,  off,  inch  by  inch,  all  the 
time.  And  I  wake  up  with  the  same  longing  on 
me  to  cry  out. '  Let  the  boy  go  !  Swim !  Swim  /' " 

"  Well,  did  you  cry  that  ?"  says  Amos. 

"  Oh  no,  sir.  I  went  in  to  him.  I  pushed  a 
log  along  and  climbed  out  on  it  and  held  out  a 
branch  to  him.  and  someway  we  all  got  ashore — " 


106  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

"What  did  you  do  with  the  baby  ?" 
"  I  was  fixing  to  lay  him  down  in  a  soft  spot 
when  I  saw  a  man  was  on  the  bank.  He  was 
jumping  up  and  down  and  yelling  :  1 1  caynt 
swim  a  stroke  I  I  caynt  swim  a  stroke  \'  '  Then 
you  hold  the  baby,'  says  I ;  and  I  dumped  poor 
Davy  into  his  arms.  When  we  got  the  boy  up 
the  bank  he  looked  plumb  dead ;  but  Dave  said  : 
6  He  ain't  dead  !  He  caynt  be  dead  !  I  won't 
have  him  dead !'  wild  like,  and  began  rubbing 
him.  I  ran  to  the  man.  If  you  please,  there 
that  unfortunate  man  was,  in  the  same  place, 
holding  Baby  as  far  away  from  him  as  he  could 
get,  as  if  he  was  a  dynamite  bomb  that  might  go 
off  at  any  minute.  '  Give  me  your  pipe/  says  I. 
'  You  will  have  to  fish  it  out  of  my  pocket  your 
self/  says  he  ;  f  I  don't  dast  loose  a  hand  from 
this  here  baby  !'  And  he  did  look  funny  !  But 
you  may  imagine  I  didn't  notice  that  then.  I 
ran  back  quick's  I  could,  and  we  rubbed  that  boy 
and  worked  his  arms  and,  you  may  say,  blowed 
the  breath  of  life  into  him.  We  worked  more'n 
a  hour — that  poor  man  holding  the  baby  the  en 
during  time  :  I  reckon  Ms  arms  were  stiff's  ours  ! 
— and  I'd  have  given  him  up  :  it  seemed  awful 
to  be  rumpling  up  a  corpse  that  way.  But  Dave, 
he  only  set  his  teeth  arid  cried,  '  Keep  on,  I  will 
save  him !' " 


HIS    DUTY  107 

"  And  you  did  save  him  ?" 

"He  did,"  flashed  the  wife;  "he'd  be  in  his 
grave  but  for  Dave.  Fd  given  him  up.  And 
his  mother  knows  it.  And  she  said  that  if  that 
child  was  not  named  Johnny  ayfter  his  paw, 
she'd  name  him  David  ayfter  Mist'  Brown  ;  but 
seeing  he  was  named,  she'd  do  next  best,  give 
him  David  for  a  middle.  And  as  calling  him 
Johnny  David  seemed  too  long,  they  always  call 
him  Johnny  D.  But  won't  you  rest  your  hat  on 
the  bed  and  sit  down,  Mister — " 

"Wickliff,"  finished  Amos;  but  he  added  no 
information  regarding  his  dwelling-place  or  his 
walk  in  life,  and,  being  a  Southerner,  she  did 
not  ask  it.  By  this  time  she  was  getting  supper 
ready  for  the  guest.  Amos  was  sure  she  was  a 
good  cook  the  instant  his  glance  lighted  on  her 
snowy  and  shapely  rolls.  He  perceived  that 
he  was  to  have  a  much  daintier  meal  than  he 
had  ever  had  before  in  the  "Nation,"  yet  he 
frowned  at  the  wall.  All  the  innocent,  labori 
ous,  happy  existence  of  the  pair  was  clear  to 
him  as  she  talked,  pleased  with  so  good  a  lis 
tener.  The  dominant  impression  which  her  un 
conscious  confidences  made  on  him  was  her 
content. 

"  I  reckon  I  am  a  natural-born  farmer/'  she 
laughed.  "  I  fairly  crave  to  make  things  grow. 


108  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

and  I  love  the  very  smell  of  the  earth  and  the 
grass.  It's  beautiful  out  here." 

"  But  aren't  you  ever  lonesome  ?" 

"Why,  we've  lots  of  neighbors,  and  they're  all 
such  nice  folks.  The  Robys  are  awful  kind  peo 
ple,  and  only  four  miles,  and  the  Atwills  are  only 
three,  on  the  other  side.  And  then  the  Indians 
drop  in,  but  though  I  try  to  be  good  to  them,  it's 
hard  to  like  anybody  so  dirty.  Dave  says  Red 
Horse  and  his  band  are  not  fair  samples,  for  they 
are  all  young  bucks  that  their  fathers  won't  be 
responsible  for,  and  they  certainly  do  steal.  I 
don't  think  they  ever  stole  anything  from  us, 
'cept  one  hog  and  three  chickens  and  a  jug  of 
whiskey ;  but  we  always  feed  them  well,  and  it's  a 
little  trying,  though  maybe  you'll  think  I'm  in 
hospitable  to  say  so,  to  have  half  a  dozen  of  them 
drop  in  and  eat  up  a  whole  batch  of  light  bread 
and  all  the  meat  you've  saved  for  next  day  and  a 
plumb  jug  of  molasses  at  a  sitting.  That  Red 
Horse  is  crazy  for  whiskey,  and  awful  mean 
when  he's  drunk ;  but  he's  always  been  civil  to 
us —  There's  Mist'  Brown  now  !'' 

WickliiFs  first  glance  at  the  man  in  the  doorway 
showed  him  the  same  undersized,  fair-skinned, 
handsome  young  fellow  that  he  remembered  ;  he 
wanted  to  shrug  his  shoulders  and  exclaim,  "The 
identical  little  tough  !"  but  Brown  turned  his 


HIS    DUTY  109 

head,  and  then  Amos  was  aware  that  the  reck 
lessness  and  the  youth  both  were  gone  out  of  the 
face.  At  that  moment  it  went  to  the  hue  of 
cigar  ashes. 

" Here's  the  gentleman,  David;  my  husband, 
Mist'  Wickliff,"  said  the  wife. 

"Papa  !  papa  !"  joyously  screamed  the  child, 
pattering  across  the  floor.  Brown  caught  the 
little  thing  up  and  kissed  it  passionately  ;  and  he 
held  his  face  for  a  second  against  its  tiny  shoulder 
before  he  spoke  (in  a  good  round  voice),  welcom 
ing  his  guest.  He  was  too  busy  with  his  boy,  it 
may  be,  to  oifer  his  hand.  Neither  did  Amos 
move  his  arm  from  his  side.  He  repeated  his 
errand. 

Brown  moistened  his  blue  lips ;  a  faint  glitter 
kindled  in  his  haggard  eyes,  which  went  full  at 
the  speaker. 

"  That's  what  you  want,  is  it  ?" 

"  Well,  if  I  want  anything  more,  I'll  explain  it 
on  the  way,"  said  Amos,  unsmilingly. 

Brown  swallowed  something  in  his  throat. 
"All  right;  I  guess  I  can  go,"  said  he.  "To 
morrow,  that  is.  We  can't  take  pictures  by 
moonlight;  and  the  road's  better  by  daylight. 
Won't  you  come  out  with  me  while  I  do  my 
chores  ?  We  can — can  talk  it  over."  In  spite  of 
his  forced  laugh  there  was  undisguised  entreaty 


110  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

in  his  look,  and  relief  when  Amos  assented.  He 
went  first,  saying  under  his  breath,  "  I  suppose 
this  is  how  you  want." 

Amos  nodded.  They  went  out,  stepping  down 
the  narrow  walk  between  the  rows  of  hollyhocks 
to  one  side  and  sweet-pease  to  the  other.  Amos 
turned  his  head  from  side  to  side,  against  his 
will,  subdued  by  the  tranquil  beauty  of  the  scene. 
The  air  was  very  still.  Only  afar,  on  the  river- 
bank,  the  cows  were  calling  to  the  calves  in  the 
yard.  A  bell  tinkled,  thin  and  sweet,  as  one  cow 
waded  through  the  shallow  water  under  the  wil 
lows.  After  the  dismal  neutral  tints  of  the  prai 
rie,  the  rich  green  of  corn-field  and  grass  looked 
enchanting,  dipped  as  they  were  in  the  glaze  of 
sunset.  The  purple-gray  of  the  well-sweep  was 
painted  flatly  against  a  sky  of  deepest,  lustreless 
blue — the  sapphire  without  its  gleam.  But  the 
river  was  molten  silver,  and  the  tops  of  the  trees 
reflected  the  flaming  west,  below  the  gold  and 
the  tumbled  white  clouds.  Turn  one  way,  the 
homely  landscape  held  only  cool,  infinitely  soft 
blues  and  greens  and  grays  ;  turn  the  other,  and 
there  burned  all  the  sumptuous  dyes  of  earth  and 
sky. 

"It's  a  pretty  place,"  said  Brown,  timidly. 

"Very  pretty,"  Amos  agreed,  without  emo 
tion. 


HIS    DUTY  111 

"I've  worked  awfully  hard  to  pay  for  it.  It's 
all  paid  for  now.  You  saw  my  wife." 

"  Nice  lady,"  said  Amos. 

"  By ,  she  is  !"  The  other  man  swore  with 

a  kind  of  sob.  "  And  she  believes  in  me.  We're 
happy.  We're  trying  to  lead  a  good  life." 

"  Fm  inclined  to  think  you're  living  as  decent 
ly  and  lawfully  as  any  citizens  of  the  United 
States."  The  tone  had  not  changed. 

"  Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  Brown 
burst  forth,  as  if  he  could  bear  the  strain  no 
longer. 

"  I'm  going  to  do  my  duty,  Harned,  and  take 
you  to  Iowa." 

"  Will  you  listen  to  me  first  ?  All  you  know 
is,  I  killed—" 

But  the  officer  held  up  his  hand,  saying  in  the 
same  steady  voice,  "You  know  whatever  you 
say  may  be  used  against  you.  It's  my  duty  to 
warn — 

"Oh,  I  know  you,  Mr.  Wicklitf.  Come  be 
hind  the  gooseberry  bushes  where  my  wife  can't 
see  us — " 

"It's  no  use,  Harned  ;  if  you  talked  like  Bob 
Ingersoll  or  an  angel,  I  have  to  do  my  duty." 
Nevertheless  he  followed,  and  leaned  against  the 
wall  of  the  little  shed  that  did  duty  for  a  barn. 
Harned  walked  in  front  of  him,  too  miserably 


112  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

restless  to  stand  still,  nervously  pulling  and 
breaking  wisps  of  hay  between  his  fingers,  talk 
ing  rapidly,  with  an  earnestness  that  beaded  his 
forehead  and  burned  in  his  imploring  eyes.  ' '  All 
you  know  about  me "  —  so  he  began,  quietly 
enough — "all  you  know  about  me  is  that  I  was 
a  dissipated,  worthless  photographer,  who  could 
sing  a  song  and  had  a  cursed  silly  trick  of  mim 
icry  which  made  him  amusing  company  ;  and  so 
I  was  trying  to  keep  company  with  rich  fellows. 
You  don't  know  that  when  I  came  to  your  town 
I  was  as  innocent  a  country  lad  as  you  ever 
saw,  and  had  a  picture  of  my  dead  mother  in  my 
Bible,  and  wrote  to  my  father  every  week.  He 
was  a  good  man,  my  father.  Lucky  he  died  be 
fore  he  found  out  about  me.  And  you  don't 
know,  either,  that  at  first,  keeping  a  little  studio 
on  the  third  story,  with  a  folding-bed  in  the 
studio,  and  doing  my  cooking  on  the  gas-jet,  I 
was  a  happy  man.  But  I  was.  I  loved  my  art. 
Maybe  you  don't  call  a  photographer  an  artist. 
I  do.  Because  a  man  works  with  the  sun  instead 
of  a  brush  or  a  needle,  can't  he  create  a  picture  ? 
And  do  you  suppose  a  photographer  can't  hunt 
for  the  soul  in  a  sitter  as  well  as  a  portrait- 
painter  ?  Can't  a  photographer  bring  out  light 
and  shade  in  as  exquisite  gradations  as  an  etcher? 
Artist !  Any  man  that  can  discover  beauty,  and 


HIS    DUTY  113 

can  express  it  in  any  shape  so  other  men  can  see 
it  and  love  it  and  be  happy  on  account  of  it — 
lie's  an  artist !  And  I  don't  give  a  damn  for  a 
critic  who  tries  to  box  up  art  in  his  own  little 
hole  !"  Earned  was  excitedly  tapping  the  horny 
palm  of  one  hand  with  the  hard,  grimy  fingers  of 
the  other.  Amos  thought  of  the  white  hands  that 
he  used  to  take  such  pains  to  guard,  and  then  he 
looked  at  the  faded  check  shirt  and  the  patched 
overalls.  Earned  had  been  a  little  dandy,  too 
fond  of  perfumes  and  striking  styles. 

"  I  was  an  artist/'  said  Earned.  "  I  loved  my 
art.  I  was  happy.  I  had  begun  to  make  repu 
tation  and  money  when  the  devil  sent  him  my 
way.  Ee  was  an  amateur  photographer  ;  that's 
how  we  got  acquainted.  When  he  found  I  could 
sing  and  mimic  voices  he  was  wild  over  me,  flat 
tered  me,  petted  me,  taught  me  all  kinds  of  fool 
habits ;  ruined  me,  body  and  soul,  with  his 
friendship.  Well,  he's  dead  ;  and  God  knows 
she  wasn't  worth  a  man's  life;  but  he  did  treat  me 
mean  about  her,  and  when  I  flew  at  him  he  jeered 
at  me,  and  he  took  advantage  of  my  being  a  lit 
tle  fellow  and  struck  me  and  cuffed  me  before 
them  all ;  then  I  went  crazy  and  shot  him  !"  Be 
stopped,  out  of  breath.  Wickliff  mused,  frown 
ing.  The  man  at  his  mercy  pleaded  on,  gripping 
those  slim,  roughened  hands  of  his  hard  togeth- 


114  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

er  :  "It  ain't  quite  so  bad  as  you  thought,  is  it, 
Mr.  Wickliff  ?  For  God's  sake  put  yourself  in 
my  place  !  I  went  through  hell  after  I  shot  him. 
You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  live  looking  over 
your  shoulder  !  Fear  !  fear  !  fear  !  Day  and 
night,  fear !  Waking  up,  maybe,  in  a  cold 
sweat,  hearing  some  noise,  and  thinking  it  meant 
pursuit  and  the  handcuffs.  Why,,  my  heart  was 
jumping  out  of  my  mouth  if  a  man  clapped  me 
on  the  shoulder  from  behind,  or  hollered  across 
the  street  to  me  to  stop.  Then  I  met  my  wife. 
You  need  not  tell  me  I  had  no  right  to  marry.  I 
know  it ;  I  told  myself  so  a  hundred  times  ;  but 
I  couldn't  leave  her  alone  with  her  poor  old  sick 
father,  could  I  ?  And  then  I  found  out  that — 
that  it  would  be  hard  for  her,  too.  And  I  was 
all  wore  out.  Man,  you  don't  know  what  it  is  to 
be  frightened  for  two  years  ?  There  wasn't  a 
nerve  in  me  that  didn't  seem  to  be  pulled  out  as 
far  as  it  would  go.  I  married  her,  and  we  hid  our 
selves  out  here  in  the  wilderness.  You  can  say 
what  you  please,  I  have  made  her  happy;  and  she's 
made  me.  If  I  was  to  die  to-night,  she'd  thank 
God  for  the  happy  years  we've  had  together  ; 
just  as  she's  thanked  Him  every  night  since  we 
were  married.  The  only  thing  that  frets  her  is 
me  giving  up  photography.  She  thinks  I  could 
make  a  name  like  Wilson  or  Black.  Mavbe  I 


HIS    DUTY  115 

could  ;  but  I  don't  dare  ;  if  I  made  a  reputation 
I'd  be  gone.  I  have  to  give  it  up,  and  do  you 
suppose  that  ain't  a  punishment  ?  Do  you  sup 
pose  it's  no  punishment  to  sink  into  obscurity 
when  you  know  you've  got  the  capacity  to  do 
better  work  than  the  men  that  are  getting  the 
money  and  the  praise  ?  Do  you  suppose  it 
doesn't  eat  into  my  heart  every  day  that  I  can't 
ever  give  my  boy  his  grandfather's  honest  name  ? 
—that  I  don't  even  dare  to  make  his  father's 
name  one  he  would  be  proud  of  ?  Yes,  I  took 
his  life,  but  I've  given  up  all  my  chances  in  the 
world  for  it.  My  only  hope  was  to  change  as  I 
grew  older  and  be  lost,  and  the  old  story  would 
die  out — 

"  It  might ;  but  you  see  he  had  a  mother,"  said 
Wickliff  ;  "she  offers  five  thousand— 

"It  was  only  one  thousand,"  interrupted 
Earned. 

"One  thousand  first  year.  She's  raised  a 
thousand  every  year.  She's  a  thrifty  old  party, 
willing  to  pay,  but  not  willing  to  pay  any  more 
than  necessary.  When  it  got  to  five  thousand  I 
took  the  case." 

Harned  looked  wistfully  about  him.  "  I  might 
raise  four  thousand — " 

"  Better  stop  right  there.  I  refused  fifty 
thousand  once  to  let  a  man  go." 


116  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  Harned,  humbly  ;  "  I  re 
member.  I'm  so  distracted  I  can't  think  of  any 
thing  but  Maggie  and  the  baby.  Ain't  there 
anything  that  will  move  you  ?  I've  paid  for  that 
thing.  I  saved  a  boy's  life  once — " 

"  I  know  ;  I've  seen  the  boy." 

' '  Then  you  know  I  fought  for  his  life ;  I  fought 
awful  hard.  I  said  to  myself,  if  he  lived  I'd 
know  it  was  the  sign  God  had  forgiven  me.  He 
did  live.  I've  paid,  Mr.  Wickliff,  I've  paid  in 
the  sight  of  God.  And  if  it  comes  to  society,  it 
seems  to  me  I'm  a  good  deal  more  use  to  it  here 
than  Fd  be  in  a  State's  prison  pegging  shoes,  and 
my  poor  wife — " 

He  choked  ;  but  there  was  no  softening  of  the 
saturnine  gloom  of  Wickliff's  face. 

( '  You  ought  to  tell  that  all  to  the  lawyer,  not 
to  me,"  said  Wickliff.  "Fm  only  a  special  of 
ficer,  and  my  duty  is  to  my  employer,  not  to  so 
ciety.  What's  more,  I  am  going  to  perform  it. 
There  isn't  anything  that  can  make  it  right  for 
me  to  balk  on  my  duty,  no  matter  how  sorry  I 
feel  for  you.  No,  Mr.  Harned,  if  you  live  and  I 
live,  you  go  back  to  Iowa  with  me." 

Harned  in  utter  silence  studied  the  impassive 
face,  and  it  returned  his  gaze  ;  then  he  threw  his 
arm  up  against  the  shed,  and  hid  his  own  face  in 
the  crook  of  his  elbow.  His  shoulders  worked 


"HARNED  HID  HIS  FACE" 


HIS    DUTY  117 

as  in  a  strong  shudder,  but  almost  at  once  they 
were  still,  and  when  he  turned  his  features  were 
blank  and  steady  as  the  boards  behind  them. 

"  I've  just  one  favor  to  ask/'  said  he;  "  don't 
tell  my  wife.  You  have  got  to  stay  here  to 
night  ;  it  will  be  more  comfortable  for  you,  if  I 
don't  say  anything  till  after  you've  gone  to  bed. 
Give  me  a  chance  to  explain  and  say  good-bye.  It 
will  be  hard  enough  for  her — " 

"  Will  you  give  me  your  parole  you  won't  try 
to  escape  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Nor  kill  yourself  ?" 

Harned  started  violently,  and  he  laughed. 
"Do  you  think  I'd  kill  myself  before  poor  Mag 
gie  ?  I  wouldn't  be  so  mean.  No,  I  promise 
you  I  won't  either  run  away  or  kill  myself  or 
play  any  kind  of  trick  on  you  to-night.  Does 
it  go  ?" 

"It  goes,"  responded  Amos,  holding  out  his 
hand  ;  "  and  I'll  give  you  a  good  reputation  in 
court,  too,  for  being  a  good  citizen  now.  That 
will  have  weight  with  the  judge.  And  if  you 
care  to  know  it,  I'm  mighty  sorry  for  you." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Wickliff,"  said  Harned ;  but 
he  had  not  seemed  to  see  the  hand  ;  he  was  strid 
ing  ahead. 

"That  man  means  to  kill  himself,"  thought 


118  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

Amos  ;  ''he's  too  blamed  resigned.  He's  got  it 
all  planned  before.  And  God  help  the  poor 
beggar !  I  guess  it's  the  best  thing  he  can  do 
for  himself.  Lord,  but  it's  hard  sometimes  for 
a  man  to  do  his  duty !" 

The  two  men  walked  along,  at  first  both  mute, 
but  no  sooner  did  they  come  well  in  view  of  the 
kitchen  door  than  they  began  to  talk.  Amos 
hoped  there  was  nothing  in  the  rumors  of  Indian 
troubles. 

"There's  only  one  band  could  make  trouble," 
said  Harned.  "Red  Horse  is  a  mean  Indian, 
educated  in  the  agency  schools,  and  then  relapsed. 
Say,  who's  that  running  up  the  river  -  bank  ? 
Looks  like  Mrs.  Roby's  sister.  She's  got  the 
baby."  His  face  and  voice  changed  sharply, 
he  crying  out;  "There's  something  wrong  with 
that  woman!"  and  therewith  he  set  off  running 
to  the  house  at  the  top  of  his  speed.  Half-way, 
Amos,  running  behind  him,  could  hear  a  clamor 
of  women's  voices,  rising  and  breaking,  and  loud 
cries.  Mrs.  Brown  came  to  the  doorway,  beck 
oning  with  both  hands,  screaming  for  them  to 
hurry. 

When  they  reached  the  door  they  could  see  the 
new  -  comer.  She  was  huddled  in  a  rocking- 
chair,  a  pitiful,  trembling  shape,  wet  to  the  skin, 
her  dank  cotton  skirts  dripping,  bareheaded,  and 


HIS    DUTY  11H 

her  black  hair  blown  about  her  ghastly  face ; 
and  on  her  breast  a  baby,  wet  as  she,  smiling  and 
cooing,  but  with  a  great  crimson  smouch  on  its 
tiny  shoulder.  Near  her  appeared  Johnny  D.'s 
white  head.  He  was  pale  under  his  freckles,  but 
he  kept  assuring  her  stoutly  that  uncle  wouldn't 
let  the  Indians  get  them. 

The  woman  was  so  spent  with  running  that  her 
words  came  in  gasps.  "  Oh,  git  ready !  Fly  ! 
They've  killed  the  Robys.  They've  killed  sister 
and  Tom.  They  killed  the  children.  Oh,  my 
Lord  !  children  !  They  was  clinging  to  their 
mother,  and  crying  to  the  Indians  to  please  not 
to  kill  them.  Oh,  they  pretended  to  be  friendly 
— so's  to  git  in  ;  and  we  cooked  'em  up  such  a 
good  supper ;  but  they  killed  every  one,  little 
Mary  and  little  Jim — I  heard  the  screeches.  I 
picked  up  the  baby  and  run.  I  jumped  into  the 
river  and  swum  to  the  boat — I  don't  know  how 
I  done  it — oh,  be  quick  !  They'll  be  coming  ! 
Oh,  fly !" 

Earned  turned  on  Amos.  "  Flying's  no  good 
on  land,  but  maybe  the  boat — you'll  help  ?" 

"  Of  course,"  said  Amos.  "Here,  young  fel 
ler,  can  you  scuttle  up  to  the  roof -tree  and  re 
connoitre  with  this  field-glass  ? — you're  consider 
ably  lighter  on  your  feet  than  me.  Twist  the 
wheel  round  here  till  you  can  see  plain.  There's 


120  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

a  hole,  I  see,  up  to  the  loft.  Is  there  one  out  on 
the  roof?  Then  scuttle!" 

Mrs.  Brown  pushed  the  coffee  back  on  the 
stove.  "  No  use  it  burning/'  said  she  ;  and  Amos 
admired  her  firm  tones,  though  she  was  deadly 
pale.  "  If  we  ain't  killed  we'll  need  it.  Dave, 
don't  forget  the  camera.  I'll  put  up  some  com 
forters  to  wrap  the  children  in  and  something  to 
eat."  She  was  doing  this  with  incredible  quick 
ness  as  she  spoke,  while  Harned  saw  to  his  gun 
and  the  loading  of  a  pistol. 

The  pistol  she  took  out  of  his  hands,  saying, 
in  a  low,  very  gentle  voice,  "  Give  that  to  me, 
honey. " 

He  gave  her  a  strange  glance. 

"  They  sha'n't  hurt  little  Davy  or  me,  Dave," 
she  answered,  in  the  same  voice. 

Little  Davy  had  gone  to  the  woman  and  the 
baby,  and  was  looking  about  him  with  frightened 
eyes  ;  his  lip  began  to  quiver,  and  he  pointed  to 
the  baby's  shoulder  :  "  Injuns  hurt  Elly.  Don't 
let  Injuns  hurt  Davy  !" 

The  wretched  father  groaned. 

"  No,  baby,"  said  the  mother,  kissing  him. 

"  Hullo  !  up  there,"  called  Amos.  "  What  do 
you  see  ?" 

The  shrill  little  voice  rang  back  clearly, 
"They're  a-comin',  a  terrible  sight  of  them." 


HIS    DUTY  121 

"  How  many  ?     Twenty ?" 

"  I  guess  so.  Oh,  uncle,  the  boat's  floated 
off  !" 

"  Didn't  you  fasten  it  ?"  cried  Earned. 

"  God  forgive  me  !"  wailed  the  woman,  "  I 
don't  know  !" 

Harned  sat  down  in  the  nearest  chair,  and  his 
gun  slipped  between  his  knees.  "  Maggie,  give 
us  a  drink  of  coffee,"  said  he,  quietly.  "  We'll 
have  time  for  that  before  they  come." 

"  Can't  we  barricade  and  fight  ?"  said  Amos, 
glaring  about  him. 

"  Then  they'll  get  behind  the  barn  and  fire 
that,  and  the  wind  is  this  way." 

"We've  got  to  save  the  women  and  the  kids  !" 
cried  Amos.  At  this  moment  he  was  a  strik 
ing  and  terrible  figure.  The  veins  of  his  tem 
ple  swelled  with  despair  and  impotent  fury  ;  his 
heavy  features  were  transfigured  in  the  intensity 
of  his  effort  to  think — to  see  ;  his  arms  did  not 
hang  at  his  sides ;  they  were  held  tensely,  with 
his  fist  clinched,  while  his  burning  eyes  roamed 
over  every  corner  of  the  room,  over  every  pict 
ure.  In  a  flash  his  whole  condition  changed, 
his  muscles  relaxed,  his  hands  slid  into  his  pock 
ets,  he  smiled  the  strangest  and  grimmest  of 
smiles.  "All  right,"  said  he.  "Ah  —  Brown, 
you  got  any  whiskey  ?  Fetch  it."  The  women 


122  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

stared,  while  Harned  passively  found  a  jug  and 
placed  it  before  him. 

"  Now  some  empty  bottles  and  tumblers." 

"  There  are  some  empty  bottles  in  the  dark 
room  ;  what  do  you  mean  to  do  ?" 

"  Mean  to  save  you.  Brace  up  !  I'll  get  them. 
And  you,  Mrs.  Brown,  if  you've  got  any  pare 
goric,  give  those  children  a  dose  that  will  keep 
them  quiet,  and  up  in  the  loft  with  you  all.  We'll 
hand  up  the  kids.  Listen !  You  must  keep 
quiet,  and  keep  the  children  quiet,  and  not  stir, 
no  matter  what  infernal  racket  you  may  hear 
down  here.  You  must !  To  save  the  children. 
You  must  wait  till  you  hear  one  of  us,  Brown  or 
me,  call.  See  ?  I  depend  on  you,  and  you  must 
depend  on  me  !" 

Her  eyes  sought  her  husband's;  then,  "I'm 
ready,  sir/'  she  said,  simply.  "I'll  answer  for 
Johnny  D.,  and  the  others  I'll  make  quiet." 

"That's  the  stuff,"  cried  Amos,  exultantly. 
"  I'll  fix  the  red  butchers.  Only  for  God's  sake 
hustle  /" 

He  turned  his  back  on  the  parting  to  enter  the 
dark  room,  and  when  he  came  back,  with  his 
hands  full  of  empty  bottles,  Harned  was  alone. 

"I  told  her  it  was  our  only  chance,"  said 
Harned  ;  "but  I'm  damned  if  I  know  what  our 
only  chance  is  !" 


HIS    DUTY  123 

"  Never  mind  that,"  retorted  Amos,  briskly. 
He  was  entirely  calm  ;  indeed,  his  face  held  the 
kind  of  grim  elation  that  peril  in  any  shape 
brings  to  some  natures.  "  You  toss  things  up 
and  throw  open  the  doors,  as  if  you  all  had  run 
away  in  a  big  fright,  while  I'll  set  the  table." 
And,  as  Harned  feverishly  obeyed,  he  carefully 
filled  the  bottles  from  the  demijohn.  The  last 
bottle  he  only  filled  half  full,  pouring  the  re 
mains  of  the  liquor  into  a  tumbler. 

"All  ready?"  he  remarked;  "well,  here's 
how,"  and  he  passed  the  tumbler  to  Harned,  who 
shook  his  head.  "  Don't  need  a  brace  ?  I  don't 
know  as  you  do.  Then  shake,  pardner,  and 
whichever  one  of  us  gets  out  of  this  all  right 
will  look  after  the  women.  And  —  it's  all 
right  ?" 

"Thank  you,"  choked  Harned;  "just  give 
the  orders,  and  I'm  there." 

"  You  get  into  the  other  room,  and  you  keep 
there,  still ;  those  are  the  orders.  Don't  you 
come  out,  whatever  you  hear ;  it's  the  women's 
and  the  children's  lives  are  at  stake,  do  you 
hear  ?  And  no  matter  what  happens  to  me,  you 
stay  there,  you  stay  still!  But  the  minute  I 
twist  the  button  on  that  door,  let  me  in,  and  be 
ready  with  your  hatchet — that  will  be  handiest. 
Savez  ?" 


124  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

"Yes;  God  bless  you,  Mr.  Wickliff  !"  cried 
Harned. 

"Pardner  it  is,  now/7  said  Wickliff.  They 
shook  hands.  Then  Harned  shut  himself  in  the 
closet.  He  did  not  guess  Wickliff's  plan,  but 
that  did  not  disturb  the  hope  that  was  pumping 
his  heart  faster.  He  felt  the  magnetism  of  a 
born  leader  and  an  intrepid  fighter,  and  he  was 
Wickliff's  to  the  death.  He  strained  his  ears  at 
the  door.  A  chair  scraped  the  boards  ;  Wickliff 
was  sitting  down.  Immediately  a  voice  began  to 
sing — Wickliff's  voice  changed  into  a  tipsy  man's 
maudlin  pipe.  He  was  singing  a  war-song  : 

"'We'll   rally    round    the   flag,  boys,   we'll   rally   once 

again, 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  Freedom  !'  " 

The  sound  did  not  drown  the  thud  of  horses' 
hoofs  outside.  They  sounded  nearer.  Then  a 
hail.  On  roared  the  song,  all  on  one  note. 
Wickliff  couldn't  carry  a  tune  to  save  his  soul, 
and  no  living  man,  probably,  had  ever  heard  him 
sing. 

"'And  we'll  drive  the  savage  crew  from  the  land  we 

love  the  best, 
Shouting  the  battle-cry — ' 

"  Hullo!     Who's  comin' ?     Injuns — mean  noble 
red  men  ?     Come  in,  gen'lemen  all." 


HIS    DUTY  125 

The  floor  shook.  They  were  all  crowding  in. 
There  was  a  din  of  guttural  monosyllables  and 
sibilant  phrases  all  fused  together,  threatening 
and  sinister  to  the  listener ;  yet  he  could  under 
stand  that  some  of  them  were  of  pleasure.  That 
meant  the  sight  of  the  whiskey. 

"P-play  fair,  gen'lemen,"  the  drunken  voice 
quavered,  "thas  fine  whiskey,  fire-water.  Got 
lot.  Know  where's  more.  Queer  shorter  place 
ever  did  see.  Aller  folks  skipped.  Nobody  wel 
come  stranger.  Ha,  ha  ! — hie  ! — stranger  found 
the  whiskey,  and  is  shelerbrating  for  himself. 
Help  yeself,  gentlemen.  I  know  where  there's 
shum — shum  more— plenty." 

Dimly  it  came  to  Harned  that  here  was  the 
man's  bid  for  his  life.  They  wouldn't  kill  him 
until  he  should  get  the  fresh  supply  of  whiskey. 

"  Where  Black  Blanket  gone  ?"  grunted  Ked 
Horse.  Harned  knew  his  voice. 

"Damfino,"  returned  the  drunken  accents, 
cheerfully.  "  L-lit  out,  thas  all  I  know.  Whas 
you  mean,  hitting  each  orrer  with  bottles  ?  Plenty 
more.  I'll  go  get  it.  You  s-shay  where  you  are." 

The  blood  pounded  through  Harned's  veins  at 
the  sound  of  the  shambling  step  on  the  floor. 
His  own  shoulders  involuntarily  hunched  them 
selves,  quivering  as  if  he  felt  the  tomahawk  be 
tween  them.  Would  they  wait,  or  would  they 


126  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

shy  something  at  him  and  kill  him  the  minute 
his  back  was  turned  ?  God !  what  nerve  the 
man  had  !  He  was  not  taking  a  step  the  quicker 
— ah  !  Wickliff's  fingers  were  at  the  fastening. 
He  flung  the  door  back.  Even  then  he  stag 
gered,  keeping  to  his  role.  But  the  instant  he 
was  over  the  threshold  the  transformation  came. 
He  hurled  the  door  back  and  threw  his  weight 
against  it,  quick  as  a  cat.  His  teeth  were  set 
in  a  grin  of  hate,  his  eyeballs  glittered,  and  he 
shook  his  pistol  at  the  door. 

"Come  on  now,  damn  you  I"  he  yelled.  "We're 
ready." 

Like  an  echo  to  his  defiance,  there  rose  an 
awful  and  indescribable  uproar  from  the  room 
beyond  —  screams,  groans,  yells,  and  simulta 
neously  the  sound  of  a  rush  on  the  door.  But 
for  a  minute  the  door  held. 

The  clatter  of  tomahawk  blades  shook  it,  but 
the  wood  was  thick  ;  it  held. 

"  Hatchet  ready,  pard  ?"  said  Wickliff. 
"  When  you  feel  the  door  give,  slip  the  bolt  to 
let  'em  tumble  in,  and  then  strike  for  the  women 
and  the  kids ;  strike  hard.  I'll  empty  my  pop 
into  the  heap.  It  won't  be  such  a  big  one  if 
the  door  holds  a  minute  longer." 

"  What  are  they  doing  in  there  ?"  gasped 
Earned. 


"  'IT  WON'T  BE  SUCH  A  BIG  ONE  IP  THE  DOOR  HOLDS'" 


HIS    DUTY  127 

"  They're  dying  in  there,  that's  what/'  Wick- 
liif  replied,  between  his  teeth,  "  and  dying  fast. 
Now  !" 

The  words  stung  Harned's  courage  into  a  rush, 
like  whiskey.  He  shot  the  bolt,  and  three  In 
dians  tumbled  on  them,  with  more — he  could 
not  see  how  many  more  —  behind.  Then  the 
hatchet  fell.  It  never  faltered  after  that  one 
glimpse  Harned  had  of  the  thing  at  one  Indian's 
belt.  He  heard  the  bark  of  the  pistol,  twice, 
three  times,  the  heap  reeling ;  the  three  fore 
most  were  on  the  floor.  He  had  struck  them 
down  too  ;  but  he  was  borne  back.  He  caught 
the  gleam  of  the  knife  lurching  at  him ;  in  the 
same  wild  glance  he  saw  WicklifPs  pistol  against 
a  broad  red  breast,  and  Red  Horse's  tomahawk 
in  the  air.  He  struck — struck  as  Wickliff  fired  ; 
struck  not  at  his  own  assailant,  but  at  Red  Horse's 
arm.  It  dropped,  and  Wickliif  fired  again.  He 
did  not  see  that ;  he  had  whirled  to  ward  the 
other  blow.  But  the  Indian  knife  made  only  a 
random,  nerveless  stroke,  and  the  Indian  pitch 
ed  forward,  doubling  up  hideously  in  the  narrow 
space,  and  thus  slipping  down — dead. 

"  That's  over  !"  called  Wickliff. 

Now  Harned  perceived  that  they  were  stand 
ing  erect ;  they  two  and  only  they  in  the  place. 
Directly  in  front  of  them  lay  Red  Horse,  the 


128  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

blood  streaming  from  his  arm.  He  was  dead; 
nor  was  there  a  single  living  creature  among  the 
Indians.  Some  had  fallen  before  they  could 
reach  the  door  at  which  they  had  flung  them 
selves  in  the  last  access  of  fury ;  some  lay  about 
the  floor,,  and  one — the  one  with  the  knife — was 
stiff  behind  Harned  in  the  dark  room. 

"Look  at  that  fellow/'  called  Harned.  "I 
didn't  hit  him  ;  he  may  be  shamming." 

"  I  didn't  hit  him  either/'  said  Wickliff,  "  but 
he's  dead  all  the  same.  So  are  the  others.  I'd 
been  too,  I  guess,  but  for  your  good  blow  on 
that  feller's  arm.  I  saw  him,  but  you  can't  kill 
two  at  once." 

"  How  did  you  do  it  ?" 

"  Doped  the  whiskey.  Cyanide  of  potassium 
from  your  photographic  drugs  ;  that  was  the 
quickest.  Even  if  they  had  killed  you  and  me, 
it  would  work  before  they  could  get  the  women 
and  children.  The  only  risk  was  their  not  tak 
ing  it,  and  with  an  Indian  that  wasn't  so  much. 
Now,  pardner,  you  better  give  a  hail,  and  then 
we'll  hitch  up  and  get  them  safe  in  the  settle 
ment  till  we  see  how  things  are  going." 

"And  then  ?"  said  Harned,  growing  red. 

Amos  gnawed  at  the  corners  of  his  mustache 
in  rather  a  shamefaced  way.  "  Then  ?  Why, 
then  I'll  have  to  leave  you,  and  make  the  best 


HIS    DUTY  129 

story  I  can  honestly  for  the  old  lady.  Oh  yes, 
damn  it !  I  know  my  duty ;  I  never  went  back  on 
it  before.  But  I  never  went  back  on  a  pardner 
either  ;  and  after  fighting  together  like  we  have, 
Fm  not  up  to  any  Roman-soldier  business ;  nor 
I  ain't  going  to  give  you  a  pair  of  handcuffs 
for  saving  my  life  !  So  run  outside  and  holler 
to  your  frau." 

Left  alone,  Wicklif?  gazed  about  him  in  deep 
meditation,  which  at  last  found  outlet  in  a  few 
pensive  sentences.  "  Clean  against  the  rules  of 
war;  but  rules  of  war  are  as  much  wasted  on 
Injuns  as  '  please '  on  a  stone-deaf  man  !  And 
I  simply  had  to  save  the  women  and  children. 
Still  it's  a  pretty  sorry  lay-out  to  pay  five  thou 
sand  dollars  for  the  privilege  of  seeing.  But  it's 
a  good  deal  worse  to  not  do  my  duty.  I  shall 
never  forgive  myself.  But  I  never  should  for 
give  myself  for  going  back  on  a  pardner  either. 
I  guess  all  it  comes  to  is,  duty's  a  cursed  blind 
trail  I" 


THE  HYPNOTIST 


THE    HYPNOTIST 


THERE  were  not  so  many  carriages  in  the 
little  Illinois  city  with  chop-tailed  horses, 
silver  chains,  and  liveried  coachmen  that 
the  clerks  in  the  big  department  shop  should  not 
know  the  Courtlandt  landau,  the  Courtlandt  vic 
toria,  and  the  Courtlandt  brougham  (Miss  Abbie 
Courtlandt's  private  equipage)  as  well  as  they 
knew  Madam  Courtlandt,  Mrs.  Etheridge,  or 
Miss  Abbie.  Two  of -the  shop-girls  promptly 
absorbed  themselves  in  Miss  Abbie,  one  May 
morning,  when  she  alighted  from  the  brougham. 
For  an  instant  she  stood,  as  if  undecided,  look 
ing  absently  at  the  window,  which  happened  to 
be  a  huge  kaleidoscope  of  dolls. 

A  tall  man  and  two  ragged  little  girls  were 
staring  at  the  dolls  also.  Both  the  girls  were 
miserably  thin,  and  one  of  them  had  a  bruise  on 
her  cheek.  The  man  was  much  too  well  clad 
and  prosperous  to  belong  to  them.  He  stroked 


134  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

a  drooping  black  mustache,  and  said,  in  the  voice 
of  a  man  accustomed  to  pet  children,  whether 
clean  or  dirty,  "  Like  these  dolls  better  than 
yours,  sissy  ?" — at  the  same  time  smiling  at  the 
girl  with  the  bruised  cheek. 

A  sharp  little  pipe  answered,  "I  'ain't  got  no 
doll,  mister." 

"No,  she  'ain't,"  added  the  other  girl ;  "but 
/  got  one,  only  it  'ain't  got  no  right  head.  Pa 
stepped  on  its  head.  I  let  her  play  with  it,  and 
we  made  a  head  outer  a  corn-cob.  It  ain't  a 
very  good  head." 

"  I  guess  not,"  said  the  man,  putting  some 
silver  into  her  hand  ;  "  there,  you  take  that,  lit 
tle  sister,  and  you  go  in  and  buy  two  dolls,  one 
for  each  of  you  ;  and  you  tell  the  young  lady 
that  waits  on  you  just  what  you  told  me.  And 
if  there  is  any  money  left,  you  go  on  over  to  that 
bakery  and  fill  up  with  it." 

The  children  gave  him  two  rapid,  bewildered 
glances,  clutched  the  money,  and  darted  into  the 
store  without  a  word.  The  man's  smiling  eyes 
as  they  turned  away  encountered  Miss  Abbie's, 
in  which  was  a  troubled  interest.  She  had  tak 
en  a  piece  of  silver  from  her  own  purse.  He 
smiled,  as  perceiving  a  kindly  impulse  that 
matched  his  own  ;  and  she,  to  her  own  later  sur 
prise,  smiled  too.  The  smile  changed  in  a  flash 


THE    HYPNOTIST  135 

to  a  startled  look  ;  all  the  color  drifted  out  of 
her  face,  and  she  took  a  step  forward  so  hasti 
ly  that  she  stumbled  on  her  skirt.  Recovering 
herself,  she  dropped  her  purse  ;  and  a  man  who 
had  just  approached  went  down  on  one  knee  to 
pick  it  up.  But  the  tall  man  was  too  quick  for 
him  ;  a  long  arm  swooped  in  between  the  other's 
outstretched  hand  and  the  gleaming  bit  of  liz 
ard-skin  on  the  bricks.  The  new-comer  barely 
avoided  a  collision.  He  did  not  take  the  escape 
with  good-humor,  scowling  blackly  as  he  made  a 
scramble,  while  still  on  his  knee,  at  something 
behind  the  tall  man's  back.  This  must  have 
been  a  handkerchief,  since  he  immediately  pre 
sented  a  white  nutter  to  Miss  Courtlandt,  bow 
ing  and  murmuring,  "  You  dropped  this  too,  I 
guess,  madam." 

"  Yes,  thank  you,"  stammered  Miss  Court 
landt  ;  "  thank  you  very  much,  Mr.  Slater." 
She  entered  the  store  by  his  side,  but  at  the 
door  she  turned  her  head  for  a  parting  nod  of 
acknowledgment  to  the  other.  He  remained  a 
second  longer,  staring  at  the  dolls,  and  gnaw 
ing  the  ends  of  his  mustache,  not  irritated,  but 
sharply  thoughtful. 

Thus  she  saw  him,  glancing  out  again,  once 
more,  when  inside  the  store.  And  through  all 
the  anguish  of  the  moment — for  she  was  in  a 


136  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

dire  strait — she  felt  a  faint  pang  that  she  should 
have  been  rude  to  this  kind  stranger.  In  a 
feeble  way  she  wondered,  as  they  say  condemned 
criminals  wonder  at  street  sights  on  the  way  to 
the  gallows,  what  he  was  thinking  of.  But  had 
he  spoken  his  thought  aloud  she  had  not  been 
the  wiser,  since  he  was  simply  saying  softly  to 
himself,  "  Well,  wouldn't  it  kill  you  dead  !" 

Miss  Abbie  stopped  at  the  glove-counter  to 
buy  a  pair  of  gloves.  As  she  walked  away  she 
heard  distinctly  one  shop-girl's  sigh  and  exclama 
tion  to  the  other,  "  My,  I  wish  I  was  her !" 

A  kind  of  quiver  stirred  Miss  Abbie's  faded 
cold  face.  Her  dark  gray  eyes  recoiled  sidewise  ; 
then  she  stiffened  from  head  to  heel  and  passed 
out  of  the  store. 

To  a  casual  observer  she  looked  annoyed ;  in 
reality  she  was  both  miserable  and  humiliated. 
And  once  back  in  the  shelter  of  the  brougham 
her  inward  torment  showed  plainly  in  her  face. 

Abigail  Courtlandt  was  the  second  daughter 
of  the  house  ;  never  so  admired  as  Mabel,  the 
oldest,  who  died,  or  Margaret,  the  youngest,  who 
married  Judge  Etheridge,  and  was  now  a  widow, 
living  with  her  widowed  mother. 

Abigail  had  neither  the  soft  Hayward  loveli 
ness  of  Mabel  and  her  mother,  nor  the  haughty 
beauty  of  Margaret,  who  was  all  a  Courtlandt, 


THE    HYPNOTIST  137 

yet  she  was  not  uncomely.  If  her  chin  was  too 
long,  her  forehead  too  high,  her  ears  a  trifle  too 
large,  to  offset  these  defects  she  had  a  skin  of 
exquisite  texture,  pale  and  clear,  white  teeth,  and 
beautiful  black  brows. 

She  was  thin,  too  thin  ;  but  her  dressmaker 
was  an  artist,  and  Abbie  would  have  been  grace 
ful  were  she  not  so  nervous,  moving  so  abruptly, 
and  forever  fiddling  at  something  with  her  fin 
gers.  When  she  sat  next  any  one  talking,  it  did 
not  help  that  person's  complacency  to  have  her 
always  sink  slightly  on  the  elbow  further  from 
her  companion,  as  if  averting  her  presence.  An 
embarrassed  little  laugh  used  to  escape  her  at 
the  wrong  moment.  Withal,  she  was  cold  and 
stiff,  although  some  keen  people  fancied  that  -her 
coldness  and  stiffness  were  no  more  than  a  mask 
to  shield  a  morbid  shyness.  These  same  people 
said  that  if  she  would  only  forget  herself  and 
become  interested  in  other  people  she  would  be 
a  lovable  woman,  for  she  had  the  kindest  heart 
in  the  world.  Unfortunately  all  her  thoughts 
concentred  on  herself.  Like  many  shy  people, 
Abbie  was  vain.  Diffidence  as  often  comes  from 
vanity,  which  is  timid,  as  from  self  -  distrust. 
Abbie  longed  passionately  not  only  to  be  loved, 
but  to  be  admired.  She  was  loved,  assuredly, 
but  she  was  not  especially  admired.  Margaret 


138  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

Etheridge,  with  her  courage,  her  sparkle,  and 
her  beauty,  was  always  the  more  popular  of  the 
sisters.  Margaret  was  imperious,  but  she  was 
generous  too,  and  never  oppressed  her  following ; 
only  the  rebels  were  treated  to  those  stinging 
speeches  of  hers.  Those  who  loved  Margaret 
admired  her  with  enthusiasm.  No  one  admired 
poor  Abbie  with  enthusiasm.  She  was  her  fa 
ther's  favorite  child,  but  he  died  when  she  was 
in  short  dresses  ;  and,  while  she  was  dear  to  all 
the  family,  she  did  not  especially  gratify  the 
family  pride. 

Her  hungry  vanity  sought  refuge  in  its  own 
creations.  She  busied  herself  in  endless  fictions 
of  reverie,  wherein  an  imaginary  husband  and 
an  imaginary  home  of  splendor  appeased  all  her 
longings  for  triumph.  While  she  walked  and 
talked  and  drove  and  sewed,  like  other  people, 
only  a  little  more  silent,  she  was  really  in  a  land 
of  dreams. 

Did  her  mother  complain  because  she  had  for 
gotten  to  send  the  Book  Club  magazines  or 
books  to  the  next  lawful  reader,  she  solaced  her 
self  by  visions  of  a  book  club  in  the  future  which 
she  and  "he"  would  organize,  and  a  reception 
of  distinguished  elegance  which  "  they  "  would 
give,  to  which  the  disagreeable  person  who  made 
a  fuss  over  nothing  (meaning  the  reader  to  whom 


THE    HYPNOTIST  139 

reading  was  due)  should  not  be  invited — thereby 
reducing  her  to  humility  and  tears.  But  even 
the  visionary  tears  of  her  offender  affected  Ab- 
bie's  soft  nature,  and  all  was  always  forgiven. 

Did  Margaret  have  a  swarm  of  young  fellows 
disputing  over  her  card  at  a  ball,  while  Abbie 
must  sit  out  the  dances,  cheered  by  no  livelier 
company  than  that  of  old  friends  of  the  family, 
who  kept  up  a  water-logged  pretence  of  conver 
sation  that  sank  on  the  approach  of  the  first 
new-comer  or  a  glimpse  of  their  own  daughters 
on  the  floor,  Abbie  through  it  all  was  dreaming 
of  the  balls  "they"  would  give,  and  beholding 
herself  beaming  and  gracious  amid  a  worship 
ping  throng. 

These  mental  exercises,  this  double  life  that 
she  lived,  kept  her  inexperienced.  At  thirty  she 
knew  less  of  the  world  than  a  girl  in  her  first 
season  ;  and  at  thirty  she  met  Ashton  Clarke. 
Western  society  is  elastic,  or  Clarke  never  would 
have  been  on  the  edges  even  ;  he  never  did  get 
any  further,  and  his  morals  were  more  dubious 
than  his  position  ;  but  he  was  Abbie's  first  im 
passioned  suitor,  and  his  flattering  love  covered 
every  crack  in  his  manners  or  his  habits.  Men 
had  asked  her  to  marry  them  before,  but  never 
had  a  man  made  love  to  her.  For  two  weeks 
she  was  a  happy  woman.  Then  came  discovery, 


140  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

and  the  storm  broke.  The  Courtlandts  were  in 
a  rage — except  gentle  Madam  Courtlandt,  who 
was  broken-hearted  and  ashamed,  which  was 
worse  for  Abbie.  Jack,  the  older  brother,  was 
summoned  from  Chicago.  Ralph,  the  younger, 
tore  home  on  his  own  account  from  Yale.  It 
was  really  a  testimony  to  the  family's  affection 
for  Abbie  that  she  created  such  a  commotion, 
but  it  did  not  impress  her  in  that  way.  In  the 
end  she  yielded,  but  she  yielded  with  a  sense  of 
cruel  injustice  done  her. 

Time  proved  Clarke  worse  than  her  people's* 
accusations  ;  but  time  did  not  efface  what  the 
boys  had  said,  much  less  what  the  girls  had  said. 
They  forgot,  of  course  ;  it  is  so  much  easier  to 
forget  the  ugly  words  that  we  say  than  those 
that  are  said  to  us.  But  she  remembered  that 
Jack  felt  that  Abbie  never  did  have  any  sense, 
and  that  Ralph  raged  because  she  did  not  even 
know  a  cad  from  a  gentleman,  and  that  Mar 
garet,  pacing  the  floor,  too  angry  to  sit  still, 
would  not  have  minded  so  much  had  Abbie  made 
a  fool  of  herself  for  a  man  ;  but  she  didn't  wait 
long  enough  to  discover  what  he  was  ;  she  pos 
itively  accepted  the  first  thing  with  a  mustache 
on  it  that  offered  ! 

Time  healed  her  heart,  but  not  her  crushed 
and  lacerated    vanity.       And   it  is   a   question 


THE    HYPNOTIST  141 

whether  we  do  not  suffer  more  keenly,  if  less 
deeply,  from  wounds  to  the  self-esteem  than  to 
the  heart.  Generally  we  mistake  the  former  for 
the  latter,  and  declare  ourselves  to  have  a  sensi 
tive  heart,  when  what  we  do  have  is  only  a  thin- 
skinned  vanity ! 

But  there  was  no  mistake  about  Abbie's  misery, 
however  a  moralist  might  speculate  concerning 
the  cause.  She  suffered  intensely.  And  she 
had  no  confidant.  She  had  not  even  her  old 
fairyland  of  fancy,  for  love  and  lovers  were  be 
come  hateful  to  her.  At  first  she  went  to 
church— until  an  unlucky  difference  with  the 
rector's  wife  at  a  church  fair.  Later  it  was  as 
much  her  unsatisfied  vanity  and  unsatisfied 
heart  as  any  spiritual  confusion  that  led  her  into 
all  manner  of  excursions  into  the  shadowy  bor 
der-land  of  the  occult.  She  was  a  secret  attend 
ant  on  table-tippings  and  seances ;  a  reader  of 
every  kind  of  mystical  lore  that  she  could  buy  ; 
an  habitual  consulter  of  spiritual  mediums  and 
clairvoyants  and  seventh  sons  and  daughters  and 
the  whole  tribe  of  charlatans.  But  the  family 
had  not  noticed.  They  were  not  afraid  of  the 
occult  ones  ;  they  were  glad  to  have  Abbie  happy 
and  more  contented;  and  they  concerned  them 
selves  no  further,  as  is  the  manner  of  families, 
being  occupied  with  their  own  concerns. 


142  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

And  so  unguarded  Abbie  went  to  her  evil  fate. 
One  morning,  Avith  her  maid  Lucy,  she  went  to 
see  "the  celebrated  clairvoyant  and  seer,  Pro 
fessor  Rudolph  Slater,  the  greatest  revealer  of 
the  future  in  this  or  any  other  century." 

Lucy  looked  askance  at  the  shabby  one-story 
saloons  on  the  street,  and  the  dying  lindens  be 
fore  the  house.  Her  disapproval  deepened  as 
they  went  up  the  wooden  steps.  The  house  was 
one  of  a  tiny  brick  block,  with  wooden  cornices, 
and  unshaded  wooden  steps  in  need  not  only  of 
painting  but  scrubbing. 

The  door  opened  into  an  entry  which  was  dark, 
but  not  dark  enough  to  conceal  the  rents  in  the 
oil-cloth  on  the  floor  or  the  blotches  on  the  imi 
tation  oak  paper  of  the  walls. 

Lucy  sniffed ;  she  was  a  faithful  and  aif ection- 
ate  attendant,  and  she  used  considerable  free 
dom  with  her  mistress.  "I  don't  know  about 
there  being  spirits  here,  but  there's  been  lots  of 
onions  \"  remarked  Lucy.  Nor  did  her  unfavor 
able  opinion  end  with  the  approach  to  the  sor 
cerer's  presence.  She  maintained  her  wooden 
expression  even  sitting  in  the  great  man's  room 
and  hearing  his  speech. 

Abbie  did  not  see  the  hole  in  the  green  rep 
covering  of  the  arm-chair,  nor  the  large  round 
oil-stain  on  the  faded  roses  of  the  carpet,  nor 


THE   HYPNOTIST  143 

the  dust  on  the  Parian  ornaments  of  the  table  ; 
she  was  too  absorbed  in  the  man  himself. 

If  his  surroundings  were  sordid,  he  was  splen 
did  in  a  black  velvet  jacket  and  embroidered 
shirt-front  sparkling  with  diamonds.  He  was  a 
short  man,  rather  thick -set,  and  although  his 
hair  was  gray,  his  face  was  young  and  florid. 
The  gray  hair  was  very  thick,  growing  low  on 
his  forehead  and  curling.  Abbie  thought  it 
beautiful.  She  thought  his  eyes  beautiful  also, 
and  spoke  to  Lucy  of  their  wonderful  blue  color 
and  soul-piercing  gaze. 

"I  thought  they  were  just  awful  impudent," 
said  Lucy.  "  I  never  did  see  a  man  stare  so, 
Miss  Abbie  ;  I  wanted  to  slap  him  !" 

"  But  his  hair  was  beautiful/'  Abbie  persisted  ; 
"  and  he  said  it  used  to  be  straight  as  a  poker, 
but  the  spirits  curled  it." 

"Why,  Miss  Abbie,"  cried  Lucy,  "I  could 
see  the  little  straight  ends  sticking  out  of  the 
curls,  that  come  when  you  do  your  hair  up  on 
irons.  I've  frizzed  my  hair  too  many  times  not 
to  know  them." 

"  But,  Lucy,"  said  Abbie,  in  a  low,  shocked 
voice,  "didn't  you  feel  something  when  he  put 
on  those  handcuffs  and  sat  before  the  cabinet  in 
the  dark,  and  his  control  spoke,  and  we  saw  the 
hands  ?  What  do  you  think  of  that  ?" 


144  THE   MISSIONARY  SHERIFF 

"  I  think  it  was  him  all  the  time/'  said  Lucy, 
doggedly. 

"But,  Lucy,  why?9 

"Finger-nails  were  dirty  just  the  same,"  said 
Lucy.  Nor  was  there  any  shaking  her.  But 
Abbie,  under  ordinary  circumstances  the  most 
fastidious  of  women,  had  not  noted  the  finger 
nails  ;  one  witching  sentence  had  captured  her. 

The  moment  he  took  her  hand  he  had  started 
violently.  "  Excuse  me,  madam,"  said  he,  "but 
are  you  not  a  medium  yourself?" 

"'No — at  least,  I  never  was  supposed  to  be," 
fluttered  Abbie,  blushing. 

"Then,  madam,  you  don't  perhaps  realize 
that  you  yourself  possess  marvellous  psychic 
power.  I  never  saw  any  one  who  had  so  much, 
when  it  had  not  been  developed." 

To-day  Abbie  ground  her  teeth  and  wrung 
her  hands  in  an  impotent  agony  of  rage,  remem 
bering  her  pleasure.  He  would  not  take  any 
money  ;  no,  he  said,  there  had  been  too  much 
happiness  for  him  in  meeting  such  a  favorite  of 
the  spiritual  influences  as  she. 

"But  you  will  come  again,"  he  pleaded; 
"only  don't  ask  me  to  take  money  for  such  a 
great  privilege.  You  caynt  see  the  invisible 
guardians  that  hover  around  you  !" 

His  refusal  of  her  gold  piece  completed  his 


THE   HYPNOTIST  l45 


victory  over  Abbie's  imagination.  She  was  sure 
he  could  not  be  a  cheat,  since  he  would  not  be 
paid.  She  did  come  again;  she  came  many 
times,  always  with  Lucy,  who  grew  more  and 
more  suspicious,  but  could  not  make  up  her 
mind  to  expose  Abbie's  folly  to  her  people. 
"  Think  of  all  the  things  she  gives  me  !"  argued 
Lucy.  "Miss  Abbie's  always  been  a  kind  of 
stray  sheep  in  the  family  ;  they  are  all  kind  of 
hard  on  her.  I  can't  bear  to  be  the  one  to  get 
her  into  trouble." 

So  Lucy's  conscience  squirmed  in  silence  until 
the  fortune-teller  persuaded  Abbie  to  allow  him 
to  throw  her  into  a  trance.  The  wretched  wom 
an  in  the  carriage  cowered  back  farther  into  the 
shade,  living  over  that  ghastly  hour  when  Lucy 
at  her  elbow  was  as  far  away  from  her  helpless 
soul  as  if  at  the  poles.  How  his  blue  eyes 
glowed  !  How  the  flame  in  them  contracted  to 
a  glittering  spark,  like  the  star-tip  of  the  silver 
wand,  waving  and  curving  and  interlacing  its 
dazzling  flashes  before  her  until  her  eyeballs 
ached  !  How  of  a  sudden  the  star  rested,  blink 
ing  at  her  between  his  eyes,  and  she  looked  ;  she 
must  look  at  it,  though  her  will,  her  very  self, 
seemed  to  be  sucked  out  of  her  into  the  gleam 
ing  whirlpool  of  that  star  ! 

She  made  a  feeble  rally  under  a  woful  im- 


10 


146  THE   MISSIONARY   SHERIFF 

pression  of  fright  and  misery  impending,  but  in 
vain ;  and,  with  the  carelessness  of  a  creature 
who  is  chloroformed,  she  let  her  soul  drift 
away. 

When  she  opened  her  eyes,  Lucy  was  rubbing 
her  hands,  while  the  clairvoyant  watched  the  two 
women  motionless  and  smiling. 

The  fear  still  on  her  prompted  her  first  words, 
"  Let  me  go  home  now  !" 

"  Not  now/"  begged  the  conjurer  ;  "you  must 
go  into  a  trance  again.  I  want  you  to  see  some 
thing  that  will  be  very  interesting  to  you.  Please, 
Miss  Courtlandt."  He  spoke  in  the  gentlest  of 
tones,  but  there  was  a  repressed  assurance  about 
his  manner  that  was  infuriating  to  Lucy. 

"  Miss  Abbie's  going  home,"  she  cried,  an 
grily  ;  "  we  ain't  going  to  have  any  more  of  this 
nonsense.  Come,  Miss  Abbie.''  She  touched 
her  on  her  arm,  but  trembling  Abbie  fixed  her 
eyes  on  the  conjurer,  and  he,  in  that  gentle 
tone,  answered  : 

"  Certainly,  if  she  wishes  ;  but  she  wants  to 
stay.  You  want  to  stay,  Miss  Courtlandt,  don't 
you  ?" 

"Yes,  I  want  to  stay/'  said  Abbie;  and  her 
heart  was  cold  within  her,  for  the  words  seemed 
to  say  themselves,  even  while  she  struggled  fran 
tically  against  the  utterance  of  them. 


'  •"•"'.;•. 


"  'SHE    MUST    LOOK   AT    IT'" 


THE    HYPNOTIST  147 

"Do  you  mean  it,  Miss  Abbie  ?"  the  girl  re 
peated,  sorely  puzzled. 

"Certainly,  just  once  more,"  said  Miss  Abbie. 
And  she  sat  down  again  in  her  chair. 

What  she  saw  she  never  remembered.  Lucy 
said  it  was  all  nonsense  she  talked,  and,  anyhow, 
she  whispered  so  low  that  nobody  could  catch 
more  than  a  word,  except  that  she  seemed  to  be 
promising  something  over  and  over  again.  In 
a  little  while  the  conjurer  whispered  to  her,  and 
with  a  few  passes  of  his  hand  consciousness  re 
turned.  She  rose,  white  and  shaken,  but  quite 
herself  again.  He  bade  the  two  good-bye,  and 
bowed  them  out  with  much  suavity  of  manner. 
Abbie  returned  not  a  single  word.  As  they  drove 
home,  the  maid  spoke,  "Miss  Abbie,  Miss  Ab 
bie — you  won't  go  there  again,  will  you  ?" 

"Never,"  cried  Abbie — "never!" 

But  the  next  morning,  after  a  sleepless  night, 
there  returned  the  same  horrible,  dragging  long 
ing  to  see  him ;  and  with  the  longing  came  the 
same  fear  that  had  suffocated  her  will  the  day 
before — a  fear  like  the  fear  of  dreams,  formless, 
reasonless,  more  dreadful  than  death. 

Impelled  by  this  frightful  force  that  did  not 
seem  to  have  anything  to  do  with  her,  herself, 
she  left  the  house  and  boarded  a  street-car.  She 
felt  as  if  a  demon  were  riding  her  soul,  spur- 


148  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

ring  it  wherever  he  willed.  She  went  to  a  little 
park  outside  the  city,  frequented  hy  Germans 
and  almost  deserted  of  a  week-day.  And  on 
her  way  she  remembered  that  this  was  what  she 
had  promised  him  to  do. 

He  was  waiting  to  assist  her  from  the  car.  As 
he  helped  her  alight,  she  noticed  his  hands  and 
his  nails.  They  were  neat  enough ;  yet  she 
suddenly  recalled  Lucy's  words ;  and  suddenly 
she  saw  the  man,  in  his  tasteless,  expensive 
clothes,  with  his  swagger  and  the  odor  of  whis 
key  about  him,  as  any  other  gentlewoman  would 
have  seen  him.  Her  fright  had  swept  all  his 
seer's  glamour  away  ;  he  was  no  longer  the  mys 
tical  ruler  of  the  spirit-world ;  he  was  a  squalid 
adventurer — and  her  master  ! 

He  made  her  realize  that  in  five  minutes. 
"You  caynt  help  yourself,  Miss  Courtlandt," 
he  said,  and  she  believed  him. 

Whether  it  were  the  influence  of  a  strong  will 
on  a  hysterical  temperament  and  a  morbidly  im 
pressible  fancy,  or  whether  it  were  a  black  power 
from  the  unseen,  beyond  his  knowledge  but  not 
beyond  his  abuse,  matters  little  so  far  as  poor 
Abbie  Courtlandt  was  concerned  ;  on  either  sup 
position,  she  was  powerless. 

She  left  him,  hating  him  as  only  slavery  and 
fear  can  hate ;  but  she  left  him  pledged  to  bring 


THE    HYPNOTIST  149 

him  five  hundred  dollars  in  the  morning  and  to 
marry  him  in  the  afternoon  ;  and  now,  having 
kept  her  word  about  the  money,  she  was  driving 
home,  clinching  in  her  cold  fingers  the  slip  of 
paper  containing  the  address  of  a  justice  of  the 
peace  in  the  suburbs,  where  she  must  meet  him 
and  be  bound  to  this  unclean  vulture,  who 
would  bear  her  away  from  home  and  kindred 
and  all  fair  repute  and  peace. 

A  passion  of  revolt  shook  her.  She  must  meet 
him  ?  Why  must  she  ?  Why  not  tear  his  ad 
dress  to  bits  ?  Why  not  drive  fast,  fast  home, 
and  tell  her  mother  that  she  was  going  to  Chi 
cago  about  some  gowns  that  night  ?  Why  not 
stay  there  at  Jack's,  and  let  this  fiend,  who  har 
ried  her,  wait  in  vain  ?  She  twisted  the  paper 
and  ground  her  teeth  ;  yet  she  knew  that  she 
shouldn't  tear  it,  just  as  we  all  know  we  shall 
not  do  the  frantic  things  that  we  imagine,  even 
while  we  are  finishing  up  the  minutest  details 
the  better  to  feign  ourselves  in  earnest.  Poor, 
weak  Abbie  knew  that  she  never  would  dare  to 
confess  her  plight  to  her  people.  No,  she  could 
never  endure  another  family  council  of  war. 

"  There  is  only  one  way,"  she  muttered.  In 
stead  of  tearing  the  paper  she  read  it : 

"Be  at  Squire  L.  B.  Leitner's,  398  8.  Miller 
Street,  at  3  p.m.  sharp" 


160  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

And  now  she  did  tear  the  odious  message, 
flinging  the  pieces  furiously  out  of  the  carriage 
window. 

The  same  tall,  dark,  square-shouldered  man 
that  she  had  seen  in  front  of  the  shop-window 
was  passing,  and  immediately  bent  and  picked 
up  some  of  the  shreds.  For  an  instant  the  cur 
rent  of  her  terror  turned,  but  only  for  an  in 
stant.  What  could  a  stranger  do  with  an  ad 
dress  ?"  She  sank  into  the  corner,  and  her 
miserable  thoughts  harked  back  to  the  trap  that 
held  her. 

Like  one  in  a  nightmare,  she  sat,  watching 
the  familiar  sights  of  the  town  drift  by,  to  the 
accompaniment  of  her  horses'  hoofs  and  jingling 
chains.  "  This  is  the  last  drive  I  shall  ever  take," 
she  thought. 

She  felt  the  slackening  of  speed,  and  saw  (still 
in  her  nightmare)  the  broad  stone  steps  and  the 
stately,  old-fashioned  mansion,  where  the  dain 
tiest  of  care  and  the  trimmest  of  lawns  had 
turned  the  old  ways  of  architecture  from  decrepi 
tude  into  pride. 

Lunch  was  on  the  table,  and  her  mother 
nodded  her  pretty  smile  as  she  passed.  Abbie 
had  a  box  of  flowers  in  her  hand,  purchased 
earlier  in  the  morning ;  these  she  brought  into 
the  dining-room.  There  were  violets  for  her 


THE   HYPNOTIST  151 

mother  and  American  Beauties  for  Margaret. 
"  They  looked  so  sweet  I  had  to  buy  them,"  she 
half  apologized.  Going  through  the  hall,  she 
heard  her  mother  say,  "  How  nice  and  thought 
ful  Abbie  has  grown  lately  I"  And  Margaret 
answered,  "  Abbie  is  a  good  deal  more  of  a 
woman  than  I  ever  expected  her  to  be/' 

All  her  life  she  had  grieved  because — so  she 
morbidly  put  it  to  herself — her  people  despised 
her ;  now  that  it  was  too  late,  was  their  approval 
come  to  her  only  to  be  flung  away  with  the  rest  ? 
She  returned  to  the  dining-room  and  went 
through  the  farce  of  eating.  She  forced  herself 
to  swallow ;  she  talked  with  an  unnatural  ease 
and  fluency.  Several  times  her  sister  laughed 
at  her  words.  Her  mother  smiled  on  her  fondly. 
Margaret  said,  "  Abbie,  why  can't  you  go  to 
Chicago  with  me  to-night  and  have  a  little  lark  ? 
You  have  clothes  to  fit,  too  ;  Lucy  can  pack  you 
up,  and  we  can  take  the  night  train." 

"  I  would,"  chimed  in  Mrs.  Courtlandt.  "  You 
look  so  ill,  Abbie.  I  think  you  must  be  bilious  ; 
a  change  will  be  nice  for  you.  And  I'll  ask 
Mrs.  Curtis  over  for  a  few  days  while  you  are 
gone,  and  we  will  have  a  little  tea-party  of  our 
own  and  a  little  lark  for  ourselves." 

Never  before  had  Margaret  wished  Abbie  to 
accompany  her  on  "a  little  lark."  Abbie  as- 


152  THE    MISSIONARY   SHERIFF 

sented  like  a  person  in  a  dream ;  only  she  must 
go  down  to  the  bank  after  luncheon,,  she  said. 

Up-stairs  in  her  own  chamber  she  gazed  about 
the  pretty  furnishings  with  blank  eyes.  There 
was  the  writing-desk  that  her  mother  gave  her 
Christmas,  there  glistened  the  new  dressing- 
table  that  Margaret  helped  her  about  finishing, 
and  there  was  the  new  paper  with  the  sprawly 
flowers  that  she  thought  so  ugly  in  the  pattern, 
and  took  under  protest,  and  liked  so  much  on 
the  walls.  How  often  she  had  been  unjust  to 
her  people,  and  yet  it  had  turned  out  that  they 
were  right !  Her  thoughts  rambled  on  through 
a  thousand  memories,  stumbling  now  into  pit 
falls  of  remorse  over  long-forgotten  petulance 
and  ingratitude  and  hardenings  of  her  heart 
against  kindness,  again  recovering  and  thread 
ing  some  narrow  way  of  possible  release,  only 
to  sink  as  the  wall  closed  again  hopelessly  about 
her. 

For  the  first  time  she  arraigned  her  own  vanity 
as  the  cause  of  her  long  unhappiness.  Well,  it 
was  no  use  now.  All  she  could  do  for  them 
would  be  to  drift  forever  out  of  their  lives.  She 
opened  the  drawer,  and  took  a  vial  from  a  secret 
corner.  "  It  is  only  a  little  faintness  and  numb 
ness,  and  then  it  is  all  over/'  she  thought,  as  she 
slipped  the  vial  into  the  chatelaine  bag  at  her 


THE   HYPNOTIST  153 

waist.  In  a  sudden  gust  of  courage  she  took  it 
out  again ;  but  that  instinctive  trusting  to  hope 
to  the  last,  which  urges  the  most  desperate  of  us 
on  delay,  held  her  hand.  She  put  back  the  vial, 
and,  without  a  final  glance,  went  down  the  stairs. 
It  was  in  her  heart  to  have  one  more  look  at  her 
mother,  but  at  the  drawing-room  door  she  heard 
voices,  and  happening  to  glance  up  at  the  clock, 
she  saw  how  near  the  time  the  hour  was ;  so  she 
hurried  through  the  hall  into  the  street. 

During  the  journey  she  hardly  felt  a  distinct 
thought.  But  at  intervals  she  would  touch  the 
outline  of  the  vial  at  her  waist. 

The  justice's  office  was  in  the  second  story  of 
a  new  brick  building  that  twinkled  all  over  with 
white  mortar.  Below,  men  laughed,  and  glasses 
and  billiard-balls  clicked  behind  bright  new 
green  blinds.  A  steep,  dark  wooden  stairway, 
apparently  trodden  by  many  men  who  chewed 
tobacco  and  regarded  the  world  as  their  cuspidor, 
led  between  the  walls  up  to  a  narrow  hall,  at 
the  farther  end  of  which  a  door  showed  on  its 
glass  panels  the  name  L.  B.  Leitner,  J.  P. 

Abbie  rapped  feebly  on  the  glass,  to  see  the 
door  instantly  opened  by  Slater  himself.  He 
had  donned  a  glossy  new  frock-coat  and  a  white 
tie.  His  face  was  flushed. 

"  I  didn't   intend  you   should  have   to   enter 


154  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

here  alone/'  he  exclaimed,  drawing  her  into  the 
room  with  both  hands;  "I  was  jest  going  out 
side  to  wait  for  you.  Allow  me  to  introduce 
Squire  Leitner.  Squire,  let  me  make  you  ac 
quainted  with  Miss  Courtlandt,  the  lady  who  will 
do  me  the  honor." 

He  laughed  a  little  nervous  laugh.  He  was 
plainly  affecting  the  manner  of  the  fortunate 
bridegroom,  and  not  quite  at  ease  in  his  role. 
Neither  of  the  two  other  men  in  the  room  re 
turned  any  answering  smile. 

The  justice,  a  bald,  gray-bearded,  kindly,  and 
worried-looking  man,  bowed  and  said,  "Glad  to 
meet  you,  ma'am,"  in  a  tone  as  melancholy  as 
his  wrinkled  brow. 

"  Squire  is  afraid  you  are  not  here  with  your 
own  free-will  and  consent,  Abbie,"  said  Slater, 
airily  ;  "  but  I  guess  you  can  relieve  his  mind." 
At  the  sound  of  her  Christian  name  (which 
he  had  never  pronounced  before)  Abbie  turned 
white  with  a  sort  of  sick  disgust  and  shame. 
But  she  raised  her  eyes  and  met  the  intense  gaze 
of  the  tall,  dark  man  that  she  had  seen  before. 
He  stood,  his  elbow  on  the  high  desk  and  his 
square,  clean-shaven  chin  in  his  hand.  He  was 
neatly  dressed,  with  a  rose  in  his  button-hole, 
and  an  immaculate  pink-and-white  silk  shirt ; 
but  he  hardly  seemed  (to  Abbie)  like  a  man  of 


THE    HYPNOTIST  155 

her  own  class.  Nevertheless,  she  did  not  resent 
his  keen  look  ;  on  the  contrary,  she  experienced 
a  sudden  thrill  of  hope — something  of  the  same 
feeling  she  had  known  years  and  years  ago,  when 
she  ran  away  from  her  nurse,  and  a  big  police 
man  found  her,  both  her  little  slippers  lost  in 
the  mud  of  an  alley,  she  wailing  and  paddling 
along  in  her  stocking  feet,  and  carried  her  home 
in  his  arms. 

"Yes,  Miss  Courtlandt" — she  winced  at  the 
voice  of  the  justice  —  "it  is  my  duty  under 
the — hem — unusual  circumstances  of  this  case, 
to  ask  you  if  you  are  entering  into  this  — 
hem  —  solemn  contract  of  matrimony,  which  is 
a  state  honorable  in  the  sight  of  God  and  man, 
by  the  authority  vested  in  me  by  the  State  of 
Illinois — hem — to  ask  you  if  you  are  entering 
it  of  your  own  free-will  and  consent — are  you, 
miss  ?" 

Abbie's  sad  gray  eyes  met  the  magistrate's  look 
of  perplexed  inquiry  ;  her  lips  trembled. 

"Are  you,  Abbie  ?"  said  the  clairvoyant,  in  a 
gentle  tone. 

"Yes,"  answered  Abbie;  "of  my  own  free 
will  and  consent." 

"  I  guess,  professor,  I  must  see  the  lady  alone," 
said  the  justice,  dryly. 

"  You  caynt  believe  it  is  a  case  of  true  love 


6  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

laffs  at  the  aristocrats,  can  you,  squire  ?"  sneered 
Slater;  "but  jest  as  she  pleases.  Are  you  will 
ing  to  see  him,  Abbie  ?" 

"Whether  Miss  Courtlandt  is  willing  or  not/' 
interrupted  the  tall  man,  in  a  mellow,  leisurely 
voice,  "  I  guess  /will  have  to  trouble  you  for  a 
small  '  sceance'  in  the  other  room,  Marker." 

"And  who  are  you,  sir  ?"  said  Slater,  civilly, 
but  with  a  truculent  look  in  his  blue  eyes. 

"  This  is  Mr.  Amos  Wickliff,  of  Iowa,  special 
officer/'  the  justice  said,  waving  one  hand  at  the 
man  and  the  other  at  Abbie. 

Wickliff  bowed  in  Abbie's  direction,  and  sa 
luted  the  fortune-teller  with  a  long  look  in  his 
eyes,  saying  : 

"  Wasn't  Bill  Marker  that  I  killed  out  in  Ari 
zona  your  cousin  ?" 

"My  name  ain't  Marker,  and  I  never  had  .a 
cousin  killed  by  you  or  anybody,"  snapped  back 
the  fortune-teller,  in  a  bigger  and  rounder  voice 
than  he  had  used  before. 

Wickliff  merely  narrowed  his  bright  black  eyes, 
opened  a  door,  and  motioned  within,  saying, 
"Better." 

The  fortune-teller  scowled,  but  he  walked 
through  the  door,  and  Wickliff,  following,  closed 
it  behind  him. 

Abbie  looked  dumbly  at  the  justice.    He  sigh- 


THE    HYPNOTIST  157 

ed,  rubbed  his  hands  together,  and  placed  a  chair 
against  the  wall. 

"  There's  a  speaking-tube  hole  where  we  used 
to  have  a  tube,  but  I  took  it  out,  'cause  it  was 
too  near  the  type-writer/'  said  he.  "It's  just 
above  the  chair ;  if  you  put  your  ear  to  that  hole 
I  guess  it  would  be  the  best  thing.  You  can 
place  every  confidence  in  Mr.  Wickliff  ;  the  chief 
of  police  here  knows  him  well;  he's  a  perfect 
gentleman,  and  you  don't  need  to  be  afraid  of 
hearing  any  rough  language.  No,  ma'am." 

Abbie's  head  swam  ;  she  was  glad  to  sit  down. 
Almost  mechanically  she  laid  her  ear  to  the  hole. 

The  first  words  audible  came  from  AVickliff. 
"Certainly  I  will  arrest  you.  And  I'll  take  you 
to  Toronto  to-night,  and  you  can  settle  with  the 
Canadian  authorities  about  things.  Rosenbaum 
offers  a  big  reward  ;  and  Rosenbaum,  I  judge,  is 
a  good  fellow,  who  will  act  liberally." 

"  I  tell  you  I'm  not  Marker,"  cried  Slater, 
fiercely,  "  and  it  wouldn't  matter  a  damn  if  I  was  ! 
Canada  !  You  caynt  run  a  man  in  for  Canada  !" 

Wickliff  chuckled.  "  Can't  I  ?"  said  he  ; 
"that's  where  you  miss  it,  Marker.  Now  I 
naven't  any  time  to  fool  away  ;  you  can  take 
your  choice  :  go  off  peacefully — I've  a  hack  at 
the  door  —  and  we'll  catch  the  5:45  train  for 
Toronto,  and  there  you  shall  have  all  the  law 


158  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

and  justice  you  want ;  or  you  can  just  make 
one  step  towards  that  door,  or  one  sound,  and 
Til  slug  you  over  the  head,  and  load  you  into 
the  carriage  neatly  done  up  in  chloroform,  and 
when  you  wake  up  you'll  be  on  the  train  with 
a  decent  gentleman  who  doesn't  know  anything 
about  international  law,  but  does  know  me,  and 
wouldn't  turn  his  head  if  you  hollered  bloody 
murder.  See  ?" 

"  That  won't  go  down.  You  caynt  kidnap 
me  that  way  !  I'll  appeal  to  the  squire.  No, 
no  !  I  won't!  Before  God,  I  won't — I  was  jest 
fooling !" 

The  voice  of  terror  soothed  Abbie's  raw  nerves 
like  oil  on  a  burn.  "  He's  scared  now,  the  cow 
ard  !"  she  rejoiced,  savagely. 

"  There's  where  we  differ,  then,"  retorted 
Wickliff;  "/wasn't." 

"  That's  all  right.  Only  one  thing  :  will  you 
jest  let  me  marry  my  sweetheart  before  I  go,  and 
I'll  go  with  you  like  a  holy  lamb  ;  I  will,  by—" 

"  No  swearing,  Marker.  That  lady  don't  want 
to  marry  you,  and  she  ain't  going  to — " 

"Ask  her,"  pleaded  Slater,  desperately.  "  I'll 
leave  it  with  her.  If  she  don't  say  she  loves  me 
and  wants  to  marry  me,  I'll  go  all  right." 

Abbie's  pulses  stood  still. 

"  Been  trying  the  hypnotic  dodge  again,  have 


'  HE'S   SCARED   NOW,  THE   COWARD  *  " 


THE   HYPNOTIST  159 

you  ?"  said  Wickliff,  contemptuously.  "  Well,  it 
won't  work  this  time.  I've  got  too  big  a  curl  on 
you." 

There  was  a  pause  the  length  of  a  heart-beat, 
and  then  the  hated  tones,  shrill  with  fear  :  "  I 
wasn't  going  to  the  window  !  I  wasn't  going  to 
speak — " 

"  See  here,"  the  officer's  iron-cold  accents  in 
terrupted,  "  let  us  understand  each  other.  Eo- 
senbaum  hates  you,  and  good  reason,  too ;  he'd 
much  rather  have  you  dead  than  alive ;  and  you 
ought  to  know  that  /  wouldn't  mind  killing 
you  any  more  than  I  mind  killing  a  rat.  Give 
me  a  good  excuse  — pull  that  pop  you  have  in 
your  inside  pocket  just  a  little  bit— and  you're  a 
stiff  one,  sure  !  See  ?" 

Again  the  pause,  then  a  sullen  voice:  "Yes, 
damn  you !  I  see.  Say,  won't  you  let  me  say 
good-bye  to  my  girl  ?" 

Abbie  clinched  her  finger-nails  into  her  hands 
during  the  pause  that  followed.  Wickliff's  reply 
was  a  surprise;  he  said,  musingly,  "Got  any 
money  out  of  her,  I  wonder  ?" 

"  I  swear  to  God  not  a  red  cent !"  cried  the 
conjurer,  vehemently. 

"Oh,  you  are  a  scoundrel,  and  no  mistake," 
laughed  Wickliff.  "That  settles  it;  you  have! 
Well,  I'll  call  her— Oh,  Miss  Courtlandt !"— he 


160  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

elevated  his  soft  tones  to  a  roaring  bellow — 
"please  excuse  my  calling  you,  and  step  out 
here  !  Or  well  go  in  there." 

"If  it's  anything  private,  you'll  excuse  me/' 
interposed  a  mild  voice  at  her  elbow ;  and  when 
she  turned  her  head,  behold  a  view  of  the  skirts 
of  the  minister  of  justice  as  he  slammed  a  door 
behind  him  ! 

A  second  later,  Wickliff  entered,  propelling 
Slater  by  the  shoulder. 

"  Ah  !  Squire  stepped  out  a  moment,  has  he  ?" 
said  the  officer,  blandly.  "Well,  that  makes  it 
awkward,  but  I  may  as  well  tell  you,  madam, 
with  deep  regret,  that  this  man  here  is  a  pro 
fessional  swindler,  who  is  most  likely  a  bigamist 
as  well,  and  he  has  done  enough  mischief  for  a 
dozen,  in  his  life.  I'm  taking  him  to  Canada 
now  for  a  particularly  bad  case  of  hypnotic  in 
fluence  and  swindling,  etc.  Has  he  got  any 
money  out  of  you  ?"  As  he  spoke  he  fixed  his 
eyes  on  her.  "Don't  be  afraid  if  he  has  hyp 
notized  you ;  he  won't  try  those  games  before 
me.  Kindly  turn  your  back  on  the  lady,  John 
ny."  (As  he  spoke  he  wheeled  the  fortune-teller 
round  with  no  gentle  hand.)  "He  has?  How 
much  ?" 

It  was  strange  that  she  should  no  longer  feel 
afraid  of  the  man ;  but  his  face,  as  he  cowered 


THE    HYPNOTIST  161 

under  the  heavy  grasp  of  the  officer,  braced  her 
courage.  "  He  has  five  hundred  dollars  I  gave 
him  this  morning,"  she  cried ;  "but  he  may  keep 
it  if  he  will  only  let  me  go.  I  don't  want  to  mar 
ry  him  !" 

"  Of  course  you  don't,  a  lady  like  you  !  He's 
done  the  same  game  with  nice  ladies  before. 
Keep  your  head  square,  Johnny,  or  Fll  give  your 
neck  a  twist !  And  as  to  the  money,  you'll  march 
out  with  me  to  the  other  room,  and  you'll  fish  it 
out,  and  the  lady  will  kindly  allow  you  fifty  dol 
lars  of  it  for  your  tobacco  while  you're  in  jail 
in  Canada.  That's  enough,  Miss  Courtlandt— 
more  would  be  wasted  — and  if  he  doesn't  be 
quick  and  civil,  I'll  act  as  his  valet." 

The  fortune  -  teller  wheeled  half  round  in  an 
excess  of  passion,  his  fingers  crooked  on  their 
way  to  his  hip  pocket;  then  his  eye  ran  to  the 
officer,  who  had  simply  doubled  his  fist  and 
was  looking  at  the  other  man's  neck.  In 
stinctively  Slater  ducked  his  head;  his  hand 
dropped. 

"No,  no,  please,"  Miss  Courtlandt  pleaded; 
"let  him  keep  it,  if  he  will  only  go  away." 

"Beg  pardon,  miss,"  returned  the  inflexible 
Wickliff,  "you're  only  encouraging  him  in  bad 
ways.  Step,  Johnny." 

"If  you'll  let  me  have  that  five  hundred," 
11 


162  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

cried  Slater,  "  I'll  promise  to  go  with  you,,  though 
you  know  I  have  the  legal  right  to  stay." 

"  You'll  go  with  me  as  far  as  you  have  to,  and 
no  farther,  promise  or  no  promise/'  said  Wick- 
liff,  equably.  ef  You're  a  liar  from  Wayback  ! 
And  I'm  letting  you  keep  that  revolver  a  little 
while  so  you  may  give  me  a  chance  to  kill  you. 
Step,  now !" 

Slater  ground  his  teeth,  but  he  walked  out  of 
the  room. 

"  At  least,  give  him  a  hundred  dollars !"  begged 
Miss  Courtlandt  as  the  door  closed.  In  a  mo 
ment  it  opened  again,  and  the  two  re-entered. 
Slater's  wrists  were  in  handcuffs;  nevertheless, 
he  had  reassumed  a  trifle  of  his  old  jaunty  bear 
ing,  and  he  bowed  politely  to  Abbie,  proffering 
her  a  roll  of  bills.  "  There  are  four  hundred 
there,  Miss  Courtlandt,"  said  he.  "I  am  much 
obliged  to  you  for  your  generosity,  and  I  assure 
you  I  will  never  bother  you  again."  He  made  a 
motion  that  she  knew,  with  his  shackled  hands. 
"  You  are  quite  free  from  me,"  said  he;  "and, 
after  all,  you  will  consider  that  it  was  only  the 
money  you  lost  from  me.  I  always  treated  you 
with  respect,  and  to-day  was  the  only  day  I  ever 
made  bold  to  speak  of  you  or  to  you  by  your 
given  name.  Good-bye,  Miss  Courtlandt ;  you're 
a  real  lady,  and  I'll  tell  you  now  it  was  all  a  fake 


"  'I'LL  ACT  AS  HIS  VALET'" 


THE    HYPNOTIST  163 

about  the  spirits.  I  guess  there  are  real  spirits 
and  real  mediums,  but  they  didn't  any  of  'em 
ever  fool  with  me.  Good-afternoon,  ma'am/' 

Abigail  took  the  notes  mechanically ;  he  had 
turned  and  was  at  the  door  before  she  spoke. 
"  God  forgive  you  !"  said  she.  "  Good-bye." 

"That  was  a  decent  speech,  Marker,"  said 
Wickliff,  "and  you'll  see  I'll  treat  you  decent 
on  the  way.  Good-morning,  Miss  Courtlandt. 
I  needn't  say,  I  guess,  that  no  one  will  know 
anything  of  this  little  matter  from  the  squire  or 
me,  not  even  the  squire's  wife.  /  'ain't  got  one. 
I  wish  you  good-morning,  ma'am.  No,  ma'am  " 
— as  she  made  a  hurried  motion  of  the  money 
towards  him — "  I  shall  get  a  large  reward ;  don't 
think  of  it,  ma'am.  But  if  you  felt  like  doing 
the  civil  thing  to  the  squire,  a  box  of  cigars  is 
what  any  gentleman  is  proud  to  receive  from  a 
lady,  and  I  should  recommend  leaving  the  brand 
to  the  best  cigar-store  you  know.  Good-morn 
ing,  ma'am." 

Barely  were  the  footsteps  out  of  the  hall  when 
the  worthy  justice,  very  red  and  dusty,  bounced 
out  of  the  closet.  "Excuse  me,"  gasped  he, 
"  but  I  couldn't  stand  it  a  minute  longer  !  Sit 
down,  Miss  Courtlandt ;  and  don't,  please,  think 
of  fainting,  miss,  for  I'm  nearly  smothered  my 
self  !"  He  bustled  to  the  water-cooler,  and  prof- 


164  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

f ered  water,  dripping  over  a  tin  cup  on  to  Abbie's 
hands  and  gown ;  and  he  explained,  with  that  air 
of  intimate  friendliness  which  is  a  part  of  the 
American's  mental  furniture,  "  I  thought  it  bet 
ter  to  let  Wickliff  persuade  him  by  himself.  He 
is  a  remarkable  man,  Amos  Wickliff ;  I  don't  sup 
pose  there's  a  special  officer  west  of  the  Missis 
sippi  is  his  equal  for  arresting  bad  cases.  And 
do  you  know,  ma'am,  he  never  was  after  this 
Marker.  Just  come  here  on  a  friendly  visit  to 
the  chief  of  police.  All  he  knew  of  Marker  was 
from  the  newspapers ;  he  had  been  reading  the 
letter  of  the  man  Marker  swindled  in  Canada, 
and  his  oifer  of  a  reward  for  him.  Marker's 
picture  was  in  it,  and  a  description  of  his  hair 
and  all  his  looks,  and  Wickliff  just  picked  him 
out  from  that.  I  call  that  pretty  smart,  pick 
ing  up  a  man  from  his  picture  in  a  newspaper. 
Why,  I " — he  assumed  a  modest  expression,  but 
glowed  with  pride — "/  have  had  iny  picture  in 
the  paper,  and  my  wife  didn't  know  it.  Yes, 
ma'am,  Wickliff  is  at  the  head  of  the  profession, 
and  no  mistake !  Didn't  have  a  sign  of  a  war 
rant.  Just  jumped  on  the  job  ;  telegraphed  for 
a  warrant  to  meet  him  at  Toronto." 

"But  will  he  take  him  safely  to  Canada?" 
stammered  Miss  Abigail. 

"Not  a  doubt  of  it,"  said  the  justice.     And  it 


THE    HYPNOTIST  165 

may  be  mentioned  here  that  his  prediction  came 
true.  Wickliff  sent  a  telegram  the  next  day  to 
the  chief  of  police,  announcing  his  safe  arrival. 

Miss  Courtlandt  went  to  Chicago  by  the  even 
ing  train.  She  is  a  happier  woman,  and  her 
family  often  say,  "  How  nice  Abbie  is  growing  !" 
She  has  never  seen  the  justice  since ;  but  when 
his  daughter  was  married  the  whole  connection 
marvelled  and  admired  over  a  trunk  of  silver 
that  came  to  the  bride — ' '  From  one  to  whom  her 
father  was  kind." 

The  only  comment  that  the  justice  made  was 
to  his  wife:  "Yes,  my  dear,  you're  right;  it 
is  a  woman,  a  lady;  but  if  you  knew  all  about 
it,  how  I  never  saw  her  but  the  once,  and  all, 
you  wouldn't  mind  Bessie's  taking  it.  She  was 
a  nice  lady,  and  I'm  glad  to  have  obliged  her. 
But  it  really  ought  to  go  to  another  man." 


THE    NEXT    ROOM 


THE  NEXT  ROOM 


IT  was  as  much  the  mystery  as  the  horror 
that  made  the  case  of  Margaret  Clark  (com- 
•monly  known  as  Old  Twentypercent )  of 
such  burning  interest  to  the  six  daily  journals 
of  the  town.  I  have  been  told  that  the  feet  of 
tireless  young  reporters  wore  a  separate  path  up 
the  bluff  to  the  site  of  old  Margaret's  abode  ;  but 
this  I  question,  because  there  were  already  two 
paths  made  for  them  by  the  feet  of  old  Margaret's 
customers — the  winding  path  up  the  grassy  slope, 
and  the  steps  hewn  out  of  the  sheer  yellow  bluff- 
side,  sliced  down  to  make  a  backing  for  the 
street.  These  are  the  facts  that,  whichever  the 
path  taken,  they  were  able  to  glean:  Miss  Margaret 
lived  on  the  bluff  in  the  western  part  of  town. 
The  street  below  crosses  at  right  angles  the  street 
running  to  the  river,  which  is  of  the  kind  the 
French  term  an  "impasse."  It  is  a  street  of  varied 
fortunes,  beginning  humbly  in  a  wide  and  tree- 


170  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

less  plain,  where  jimson,  dock,  and  mustard  weed 
have  their  will  with  the  grass,  passing  a  number 
of  houses,  each  in  its  own  tiny  yard,  creeping  up 
the  hill  and  the  social  scale  at  the  same  time,  until 
it  is  bordered  by  velvety  boulevards  and  terraces 
and  lawns  that  glow  in  the  evening  light,  and 
pretty  houses  often  painted ;  then  dropping  again 
to  a  lonely  gully,  with  the  flaming  kilns  of  the 
brick-yard  on  one  side,  and  the  huge  dark  bulk 
of  the  brewery  on  the  other,  reaching  at  last  the 
bustle  and  roar  of  the  busiest  street  in  town. 
The  great  arc-light' swung  a  dazzling  white  porcu 
pine  above  the  brewery  vats  every  night  (when 
the  moon  did  not  shine),  and  hung  level  with 
the  crest  of  the  opposite  bluff.  By  day  or  night 
one  could  see  the  trim  old-fashioned  garden  and 
the  close-cropped  lawn  and  the  tall  bur-oaks  that 
shaded  the  two-story  brown  cottage  in  which  for 
fifteen  years  Margaret  Clark  had  lived.  Here 
she  was  living  at  the  time  of  these  events,  with 
no  protector  except  her  bull-dog,  the  Colonel 
(who,  to  be  sure,  understood  his  business,  and  I 
cannot  deny  him  a  personal  pronoun),  and  no 
companion  except  Esquire  Clark,  her  cat.  She 
did  not  keep  fowls — judging  it  right  and  neces 
sary  to  slay  them  on  occasion,  but  never  having 
the  heart  to  kill  anything  for  which  she  had 
cared  and  which  she  had  taught  to  know  her. 


THE    NEXT    ROOM  171 

Therefore  she  bought  her  eggs  and  her  "  frying 
chickens  "  of  George  Washington,  a  worthy  col 
ored  man  who  lived  below  the  hill,  and  who  kept 
Margaret's  garden  in  order.  Although  he  had 
worked  for  her  (satisfactory  service  given  for 
satisfactory  wage)  during  all  these  fifteen  years, 
he  knew  as  little  about  her,  he  declared,  as  the 
first  week  he  came.  Nor  did  the  wizened  little 
Irishwoman  who  climbed  the  clay  stairway  three 
times  a  week  to  wash  and  scrub  know  any  more. 
But  she  stoutly  maintained  "the  old  lady  was 
a  rale  lady,  and  the  saints  would  be  good  to 
her."  One  reporter,  more  curious,  discovered 
that  Margaret  several  times  had  helped  this 
woman  over  a  rough  pass. 

The  only  other  person  (outside  of  her  custom 
ers)  who  kept  so  much  as  a  speaking  acquaint 
ance  with  Margaret  was  the  sheriff,  Amos  Wick- 
liff.  And  what  he  knew  of  her  he  was  able  to 
keep  even  from  the  press.  As  for  the  customers, 
her  malicious  nickname  explains  her  business. 
Margaret  was  an  irregular  money-lender.  She 
loaned  money  for  short  periods  on  personal  se 
curity  or  otherwise.  It  should  speak  well  for 
her  shrewdness  that  she  rarely  made  a  bad  debt. 
Yet  she  was  not  unpopular  ;  on  the  contrary,  she 
had  the  name  of  giving  the  poor  a  long  day,  and, 
for  one  of  her  trade,  was  esteemed  lenient. 


172  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

Shortly  after  her  accident,  also  (she  had  the  ill- 
hap  to  fall  down  her  cellar -way,  injuring  her 
spine),  she  had  remitted  a  number  of  debts  to 
her  poorest  debtors. 

The  accident  occurred  of  a  Wednesday  morn 
ing  ;  Wednesday  afternoon  her  nephew  called 
on  her,  having,  he  said,  but  just  discovered  her 
whereabouts.  The  reporters  discovered  that  this 
nephew,  Archibald  Gary  Allerton  by  name,  was 
not  an  invited  and  far  from  a  welcome  guest, 
although  he  gave  out  that  his  mother  and  he 
were  his  aunt's  sole  living  kindred.  She  would 
not  speak  to  him  when  he  visited  her,  turning 
her  head  to  the  wall,  moaning  and  muttering,  so 
that  it  was  but  kindness  to  leave  her.  The  nurse 
(Mrs.  Raker,  the  jailer's  wife,  had  come  up  from 
the  jail)  said  that  he  seemed  distressed.  He 
called  again  during  the  evening,  after  Wickliff, 
who  spent  most  of  the  evening  with  her  alone, 
was  gone,  but  he  had  no  better  success  ;  she 
would  not  or  could  not  speak  to  him.  Thursday 
morning  she  saw  Amos  Wickliff.  She  seemed 
brighter,  and  gave  Amos,  in  the  presence  of  the 
nurse,  the  notes  and  mortgages  that  she  desired 
released.  Thursday  evening,  about  eight  o'clock, 
Amos  returned  to  report  how  he  had  done  his 
commissions.  He  found  the  house  flaming  from 
roof-tree  to  sills  !  There  was  no  question  of  his 


THE    NEXT    ROOM  173 

saving  the  sick  woman.  Even  as  he  panted  up 
the  hill-side  the  roof  fell  in  with  a  crash.  Amos 
screamed  to  the  crowd  :  "  Where  is  she  ?  Did 
you  save  her  ?"  And  the  Irish  char-woman's 
wail  answered  him  :  "  I  wint  in — I  wint  in  whin 
it  was  all  afire,  and  the  fire  jumped  at  me,  so  I 
run  ;  me  eyebrows  is  gone,  and  I  didn't  see  a 
sign  of  her !"  Then  Amos  betook  himself  to 
Mrs.  Raker,  whom  he  found  only  after  much 
searching  ;  nor  did  her  story  reassure  him.  She 
was  violently  agitated  between  pity  and  shock, 
but,  as  usual,  she  kept  her  head  on  her  shoulders 
and  her  wits  on  duty.  She  was  not  in  the  house 
when  the  catastrophe  had  happened.  Allerton 
had  come  to  see  his  aunt.  He  told  the  nurse 
that  she  might  go  to  her  sister,  her  sister's  child 
being  ill,  and  that  he  would  stay  with  his  aunt. 
Wickliff  was  expected  every  moment.  And  the 
patient  had  added  her  word,  "Do  go,  Mrs. 
Raker ;  it's  only  a  step ;  and  take  a  jar  of  my 
plum  jelly  to  Sammy  to  take  his  medicine  in  \" 
So  Mrs.  Raker  went.  She  saw  the  fire  first,  and 
that  not  half  an  hour  from  the  time  she  left  the 
house.  She  saw  it  flickering  in  the  lower  win 
dows.  It  was  she  sent  her  brother-in-law  to  give 
the  alarm,  while  she  ran  swiftly  to  the  house. 
The  whole  lower  story  was  ablaze  when  she  got 
up  the  hill.  To  enter  was  impossible.  But  Mrs. 


174  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

O'Shea,  the  char-woman,  and  she  did  find  a  lad 
der,  and  put  it  against  the  wall  and  the  window 
of  Miss  Clark's  chamber,  which  window  was  wide 
open,  and  Mrs.  Baker  held  the  ladder  while  Mrs. 
O'Shea,  who  was  of  an  agile  and  slimmer  build, 
clambered  up  the  rounds  to  look  through  the 
smoke,  already  mixed  with  flame.  And  the  room 
was  empty.  Amos  at  once  had  the  neighborhood 
searched,  hoping  that  Allerton  had  conveyed  his 
aunt  to  a  place  of  safety.  There  was  no  trace  of 
either  aunt  or  nephew.  But  Amos  found  a  boy 
who  confessed  (after  some  pressure)  that  he  had 
been  in  Miss  Margaret's  yard,  in  the  vineyard 
facing  her  room.  He  had  been  startled  by  a 
kind  of  rattling  noise  and  a  scream.  Involun 
tarily  he  cowered  behind  the  vines  and  peered 
through  at  the  house.  The  windows  of  Miss 
Clark's  room  were  closed,  or  maybe  one  was  open 
very  slightly ;  but  suddenly  this  window  was 
pushed  up  and  Allerton  leaned  out.  He  knew 
it  was  Allerton  by  the  square  shoulders.  He  did 
not  say  anything,  only  turned  his  head,  looking 
every  way.  The  boy  thought  it  time  to  run. 
He  was  clear  of  the  yard  and  beginning  to  de 
scend  the  bluff,  when  he  looked  back  and  saw 
Allerton  running  very  swiftly  through  the  circle 
of  light  cast  by  the  electric  lamp.  All  the  re 
porters  examined  the  lad,  but  he  never  altered 


THE    KEXT    ROOM  175 

his  tale.  "Mr.  Allerton  looked  frightened — he 
looked  awful  frightened,"  he  said. 

Amos  was  on  the  point  of  sending  to  the 
police,  when  Allerton  himself  appeared.  The 
incredible  story  which  he  told  only  thickened 
the  suspicions  beginning  to  gather  about  him. 

He  said  that  he  had  found  his  aunt  disinclined 
to  talk.  She  told  him  to  go  into  the  other  room, 
for  she  wished  to  go  to  sleep ;  and  although  he 
had  matters  of  serious  import  to  discuss  with 
her,  he  could  not  force  his  presence  on  a  lady, 
and  he  obeyed  her.  He  went  into  the  adjoining 
room,  and  there  he  sat  in  a  chair  before  the  door. 
The  door  was  the  sole  means  of  exit  from  the 
bedchamber.  The  two  rooms  opened  into  each 
other  by  the  door ;  and  the  second  room,  in 
which  Allerton  sat,  had  a  door  into  a  small  hall, 
from  which  the  staircase  led  down-stairs.  Aller 
ton  was  ready  to  swear  to  his  story,  which  was 
that  he  had  sat  in  the  chair  before  the  door  until 
he  heard  a  singular  muffled  scream  from  the  other 
room.  Instantly  he  sprang  up,  opened  the  door, 
and  ran  into  the  other  room.  The  bed  was  op 
posite  the  door.  To  his  terror  and  amazement, 
the  bed  was  empty,  the  room  was  empty.  He 
ran  frantically  round  the  room,  and  then  flung 
up  the  window,  looking  out ;  but  there  was  noth 
ing  to  be  seen.  Moreover,  the  room  was  twenty 


176  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

feet  from  the  ground,  nor  was  there  so  much  as 
a  vine  or  a  lightning-rod  to  help  a  climber.  It 
was  past  believing  that  a  decrepit  old  woman, 
who  could  not  turn  in  bed  alone,  should  have 
climbed  out  of  a  window  and  dropped  twenty 
feet  to  the  ground.  Besides,  there  was  the  boy 
watching  that  side  of  the  house  all  the  time.  He 
had  seen  nothing.  But  where  was  Margaret 
Clark  ?  The  chief  of  police  took  the  respon 
sibility  of  arresting  Allerton.  Perhaps  he  was 
swayed  to  this  decisive  step  by  the  boy's  testi 
mony  being  in  a  measure  corroborated  by  a 
woman  of  unimpeachable  character  living  in  the 
neighborhood,  who  had  heard  screams,  as  of  some 
thing  in  mortal  pain  or  fear,  at  about  the  time 
mentioned  by  the  boy.  She  looked  up  to  the 
house  and  was  half  minded  to  climb  the  steps  ; 
but  the  sounds  ceased,  the  peaceful  lights  in  the 
house  on  the  hill  were  not  disturbed,  and,  chid 
ing  her  own  ears,  she  passed  on. 

The  fire  broke  out  a  little  later,  hardly  a  quar 
ter  of  an  hour  after  Allerton  went  away.  This 
was  established  by  the  fact  that  the  boy,  who 
ran  at  the  top  of  his  speed,  had  barely  reached 
home  before  he  heard  the  alarm-bells.  The 
flames  seemed  to  envelop  the  whole  struct 
ure  in  a  flash,  which  was  not  so  much  a  mat 
ter  of  marvel  as  other  things,  since  the  house 


THE    NEXT    ROOM  177 

was  of  wood,  and  dry  as  tinder  from  a  long 
drought. 

It  was  possible  that  Allerton  was  lying,  and 
that  while  he  and  the  boy  were  gone  the  old 
woman  had  discovered  the  fire  and  painfully 
crawled  down-stairs  and  out  of  the  burning  house ; 
but,  in  that  case,  where  was  she  ?  How  could  a 
feeble  old  woman  thus  vanish  off  the  face  of  the 
earth  ?  The  next  day  the  police  explored  the 
ruins.  They  half  expected  to  find  the  bones  of 
the  unfortunate  creature.  They  did  not  find  a 
shred  of  anything  that  resembled  bones.  If 
Allerton  had  murdered  his  aunt,  he  had  so  con 
trived  his  crime  as  to  destroy  every  vestige  of 
the  body  ;  and  granting  him  a  motive  to  do  such 
an  atrocious  deed,  why  should  so  venturesome 
and  ingenious  a  murderer  jeopard  everything  by 
a  wild  fairy  tale  ?  The  reporters  found  them 
selves  before  a  blank  wall. 

"  Maybe  it  ain't  a  fairy  tale,"  Amos  Wickliif 
suggested  one  day,  two  days  after  the  mystery. 
He  was  giving  "the  boys"  a  kind  word  on  the 
court-house  steps. 

"  It's  to  be  hoped  it  is  a  true  story,"  said 
the  youngest  and  naturally  most  hardened  re 
porter,  "  since  then  he'll  die  with  a  better  con 
science  !" 

"They  never  can  convict  him  on  the  evi- 
12 


178  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

dence,"   interrupted    another   man.      "I   don't 
see  how  they  can  even  hold  him/' 

"  That's  why  folks  are  mad/'  said  the  young 
est  reporter,  with  a  pitying  smile. 

"  There's  something  in  the  talk,  then  ?"  said 
Amos,  shifting  his  cigar  to  the  other  side  of  his 
mouth. 

"Are  they  going  to  lynch  that  feller  ?"  asked 
another  reporter. 

"Say  so,"  the  first  young  man  remarked, 
placidly;  "a  lot  of  the  old  lady's  chums  are 
howling  about  stringing  him  up.  They've  the 
notion  that  she  was  burned  alive,  and  they're 
hot  over  it." 

"  That's  your  paper,  old  man ;  you  had  'most 
two  columns,  and  made  it  out  Mrs.  Kerby  heard 
squealing  after  the  boy  did ;  and  pictured  the 
horrible  situation  of  the  poor  old  helpless  woman 
writhing  in  anguish,  and  the  fire  eating  nearer 
and  nearer.  Great  Scott  !  it  made  me  crawl  to 
read  it ;  and  I  saw  a  crowd  down-town  in  the 
park,  and  if  one  fellow  wasn't  reading  your 
blasted  blood-curdler  out  loud ;  and  one  woman 
was  crying  and  telling  about  the  old  party  lend 
ing  her  money  to  buy  her  husband's  coffin,  and 
then  letting  her  off  paying.  That  made  the 
crowd  rabid.  At  every  sentence  they  let  off  a 
howl.  You  needn't  be  grinning  like  a  wild-cat ; 


THE   NEXT   ROOM  179 

it  ain't  fnnny  to  that  feller  in  jail,  I  bet.     Is  it, 
Amos  ?" 

"You  boys  better  call  off  your  dogs,  if  you 
can  get  'em/'  was  all  the  sheriff  deigned  to 
answer,  and  he  rose  as  he  spoke.  He  did  not 
look  disturbed,  but  his  placid  mask  belied  him. 
Better  than  most  men  he  knew  what  stormy 
petrels  "the  newspaper  boys"  were.  And  bet 
ter  than  any  man  he  knew  what  an  eggshell  was 
his  jail.  "  Fd  almost  like  to  have  'em  bust  that 
fool  door,  though,"  he  grimly  reflected,  "just 
to  show  the  supervisors  I  knew  what  I  was  talk 
ing  about.  Fll  get  a  new  jail  out  of  those  old 
roosters,  or  they'll  have  to  get  a  new  sheriff. 
But  meanwhile—"  He  fell  into  a  perplexed 
and  gloomy  reverie,  through  which  his  five 
years'  acquaintance  with  the  lost  woman  drifted 
pensively,  as  a  moving  car  will  pass,  slowly  re 
vealing  first  one  familiar  face  and  then  another. 
"I  suppose  I'm  what  the  lawyers  would  call  her 
next  friend  —  hereabouts,  anyhow,"  he  mused, 
"  and  yet  you  might  say  it  was  quite  by  accident 
we  started  in  to  know  each  other,  poor  old  lady  !" 
The  cause  of  the  first  acquaintance  was  as  simple 
as  a  starved  cat  which  a  jury  of  small  boys  were 
preparing  to  hang  just  under  the  bluff.  Amos 
cut  down  the  cat,  and  almost  in  the  same 
rhythm,  as  the  disciples  of  Delsarte  would  say. 


180  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

cuffed  the  nearest  executioner,  while  the  others 
fled.  Amos  hated  cats,  but  this  one,  as  if  recog 
nizing  his  good-will  (and  perhaps  finding  some 
sweet  drop  in  the  bitter  existence  of  peril  and 
starvation  that  he  knew,  and  therefore  loath  to 
yield  it),  clung  to  Amos's  knees  and  essayed  a 
feeble  purr  of  gratitude.  Well,  pussy/'  said 
Amos,  "good-bye  !"  But  the  cat  did  not  stir, 
except  to  rub  feebly  again.  It  was  a  black  cat, 
very  large,  ghastly  thin,  with  the  rough  coat  of 
neglect,  and  a  pair  of  burning  eyes  that  might 
have  reminded  Amos  of  Poe's  ghastly  conceit 
were  he  not  protected  against  such  fancies  by 
the  best  of  protectors.  He  could  not  remember 
disagreeably  that  which  he  had  never  read. 
"  Pussy,  you're  about  starved,"  said  Amos.  "  I 
believe  I've  got  to  give  you  a  stomachful  before 
I  turn  you  loose." 

"I'll  give  the  kitty  something  to  eat,"  said  a 
voice  in  the  air. 

Amos  stared  at  the  clouds ;  then  he  whirled 
on  his  heel  and  recognized  both  the  voice,  which 
had  a  different  accent  and  quality  of  tone  from 
the  voices  that  he  was  used  to  hear,  and  the  lit 
tle,  shabby,  gray-headed  woman  who  was  scram 
bling  down  to  him. 

"  Will  you  ?"  exclaimed  Amos,  in  relief,  for  he 
knew  her  by  repute,  although  they  had  never 


I'LL  GIVE  THE   KITTY  SOMETHING   TO  EAT 


THE    NEXT    ROOM  181 

looked  each  other  in  the  face  before.  "  Well, 
that's  very  nice  of  you,  Miss  Clark." 

"Fll  keep  him  with  pleasure,  sir,"  said  the  old 
woman.  "Fve  had  a  bereavement  lately.  My 
cat  died.  She  was  'most  at  the  allotted  term,  I 
expect,  but  so  spry  and  so  intelligent  I  couldn't 
realize  it.  I  couldn't  somehow  feel  myself  at 
tracted  to  any  other  cat.  But  this  poor  fugi 
tive —  Come  here,  sir  !" 

To  Amos's  surprise,  the  cat  summoned  all  its 
forces  and,  after  one  futile  stagger,  leaped  into 
her  arms.  A  strange  little  shape  she  looked  to 
him,  as  she  stood,  with  her  head  too  large  for 
her  emaciated  little  body,  which  was  arrayed  in 
a  coarse  black  serge  suit,  plainly  flotsam  and  jet 
sam  of  the  bargain  counter,  planned  for  a  wom 
an  of  larger  frame.  Yet  uncouth  as  the  woman 
looked,  she  was  perfectly  neat. 

"  Fm  obliged  to  you  for  saving  the  poor  creat 
ure,"  she  said. 

"  I'm  obliged  to  you,  ma'am,  for  taking  it  off 
my  hands,"  said  Amos.  He  bowed ;  she  re 
turned  his  bow — not  at  all  in  the  manner  or  with 
the  carriage  to  be  expected  of  such  a  plain  and 
ill-clad  presence.  Amos  considered  the  incident 
concluded.  But  a  few  days  later  she  stopped 
him  on  the  street,  nervously  smiling.  "That 
cat,  sir,"  she  began  in  her  abrupt  way — she  never 


182  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

seemed  to  open  a  conversation  ;  she  dived  into  it 
with  a  shiver,  as  a  timid  swimmer  plunges  into 
the  water — "that  cat/'  said  she,  "that  cat,  sir, 
is  a  right  intelligent  animal,  and  he  has  pleased 
the  Colonel.  He's  so  fastidious  I  was  afraid, 
though  I  didn't  mention  it ;  but  they  are  very 
congenial." 

" I'm  glad  they're  friendly,"  says  Amos ;  "the 
Colonel  would  make  mince-meat  of  an  uncon 
genial  cat.  What  do  you  call  the  cat  ?" 

"  I  couldn't,  on  account  of  circumstances,  you 
know,  call  him  after  my  last  cat,  Miss  Margaret 
Clark,  so  I  call  him  Esquire  Clark.  He  knows 
his  name  already.  I  thank  you  again,  sir,  for 
saving  him.  I  just  stopped  you  so  as  to  tell  you 
I  had  a  lot  of  ripe  gooseberries  I'd  be  glad  to 
have  you  send  and  pick." 

"Why,  that's  good  of  you,"  said  Amos.  "I 
guess  the  boys  at  the  jail  would  like  a  little 
gooseberry  sauce." 

She  nodded  and  turned  round ;  the  words 
came  over  her  shoulder  :  "  Say,  sir,  I  expect 
you  wouldn't  give  them  jam  ?  It's  a  great  deal 
better  than  sauce,  and  —  /  don't  mind  letting 
you  have  the  extra  sugar."  Amos  was  more  be 
wildered  than  he  showed,  but  he  thanked  her, 
and  did,  in  fact,  come  that  afternoon  with  a 
buggy.  The  first  object  to  greet  him  was  the 


THE    NEXT    ROOM  183 

large  white  head  and  the  large  black  jaws  of  the 
Colonel,  chained  to  a  post.  Amos,  who  is  the 
friend  of  all  dogs,  and  sometimes  has  an  un 
invited  following  of  stray  curs,  gave  the  snarling 
figure-head  a  nod  and  a  careless  greeting  :  "  All 
right,  young  feller.  Don't  disturb  yourself.  I'm 
here,  all  proper  and  legal.  How  are  you  ?"  The 
redoubtable  Colonel  began  to  wag  his  tail ;  and 
as  Amos  came  up  to  him  he  actually  fawned  on 
him  with  manifestations  of  pleasure. 

"  I  guess  he's  safe  to  unloose,  ma'am,"  said 
Amos. 

Old  Twentypercent  was  looking  on  with  a 
strange  expression.  et  He  likes  you,  sir  ;  I  never 
saw  him  like  a  stranger  before." 

"Well,  most  dogs  like  me/'  said  Amos.  "I 
guess  they  understand  I  like  them." 

"  I  reckon  you're  a  good  man,"  said  Old 
Twentypercent,  solemnly.  From  this  auspicious 
beginning  the  acquaintance  slowly  but  steadily 
waxed  into  a  queer  kind  of  semi  -  friendship. 
Amos  always  bowed  to  the  old  woman  when  he 
met  her  on  the  street.  She  sent  the  prisoners  in 
the  jail  fruit  every  Sunday  during  the  season ; 
and  Amos,  not  to  be  churlish,  returned  the 
courtesy  with  a  flowering  plant,  now  and  then, 
in  winter.  But  he  never  carried  his  gifts  him 
self,  esteeming  that  such  conduct  would  be  an 


184  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

intrusion  on  a  lady  who  preferred  a  retired  life. 
Esquire  Clark,  however,  was  of  a  social  turn. 
He  visited  the  jail  often.  The  first  time  he 
came  Amos  sent  him  back.  The  messenger,  Mrs. 
Eaker,  was  received  at  the  door,  thanked  warm 
ly,  sent  away  loaded  with  fruit  and  flowers,  hut 
not  asked  over  the  threshold,  which  made  Amos 
the  surer  that  he  was  right  in  not  going  himself. 
Nevertheless,  he  did  go  to  see  Miss  Clark,  but 
hardly  on  his  own  errand.  A  carpenter  in  the 
town,  a  good  sort  of  thriftless  though  industrious 
creature,  came  to  Amos  to  borrow  some  money. 
He  explained  that  he  needed  it  to  pay  interest  on 
a  debt,  and  that  his  tools  were  pledged  for  secu 
rity.  The  interest,  he  mourned,  was  high,  and 
the  debt  of  long  standing.  The  creditor  was 
Old  Twentypercent. 

**  It's  a  shame  I  'ain't  paid  it  off  before,  and 
that's  a  fact,"  he  concluded  ;  "but  a  feller  with 
nine  children  can't  pay  nothing — not  even  the 
debt  of  nature — for  he's  'fraid  to  die  and  leave 
them.  And  the  blamed  thing's  been  a-runnin> 
and  a-runnin',  like  a  ringworm,  and  a-eatin'  me 
up.  Though  my  wife  she  says  we've  more'n  paid 
her  up  in  interest."  Amos  had  an  old  kindness 
for  the  man,  and  after  a  visit  to  his  wife — he 
holding  the  youngest  two  of  the  nine  (twins)  on 
his  knees  and  keeping  the  peace  with  candy — he 


THE    NEXT    BOOM 


185 


told  the  pair  he  would  ask  Miss  Clark  to  allow  a 
third  extension,  on  the  payment  of  the  interest. 

"  Well,  but  I  don't  know's  he's  even  got  that/' 
said  the  wife,  anxiously.  "We'd  a  lot  of  ex 
penses  ;  I  don't  s'pose  we'd  orter  had  the  twins' 
photographs  taken  this  month,  but  they  was  so 
delicate  I  was  'fraid  we  wouldn't  raise  'em  ;  and 
Mamie  really  couldn't  go  to  school  without  new 
shoes.  Children's  a  blessing,  I  s'pose,  but  it's  a 
blessing  poor  folks  had  got  to  pay  for  in  ad 
vance  !" 

"So!"  says  Amos.  "Well,  we'll  have  to  see 
to  that  much,  I  guess.  I'll  go  this  night."  He 
betook  himself  to  his  errand  in  a  frame  of  mind 
only  half  distasteful.  The  other  half  was  curious. 
His  visit  fell  on  a  summer  night,  a  Sunday  night, 
when  the  air  was  soft  and  still  and  sweet  with 
the  tiny  hum  of  insects  and  the  smell  of  drying 
grass  and  the  mellow  resonance  of  the  church- 
bells.  Amos  climbed  the  clay  stairs.  The  white 
porcupine  blazed  above  the  bluffs.  It  gave  light 
enough  to  see  the  color  of  the  grass  and  flowers ; 
yet  not  a  real  color,  only  the  ghost  of  scarlet  and 
green  and  white,  and  only  a  ghost  of  the  violet 
sky,  while  all  about  the  devouring  shadows  sank 
form  and  color  alike  in  their  olive  blacks.  The 
stars  were  out  in  the  sky  and  the  south  wind  in 
the  trees.  Amos  stepped  across  the  lawn — he 


186 


THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 


was  a  light  walker  although  a  heavy-weight— 
and  stopped  before  the  front  door,  which  had 
long  windows  on  either  side.     He  had  his  arm 
outstretched  to  knock ;   but  he  did  not  knock  , 
he  stood  and  watched  the  green  holland  shade 
that  screened  the   window  rise  gradually.     He 
could   see  the  room,  a  large  room,  uncarpeted, 
whereby  the  steps  of  the  inmate  echoed  on  the 
boards.     He  could  see  a  writing-desk,  a  table, 
and  four  or  five  chairs.     These  chairs  were  en 
tirely  different  from  anything  else  in  the  room ; 
they  were  of  pretty  shape  and  extremely  com 
fortable.     Immediately  the  curtain  descended  at 
a  run,  and  the  old  woman's  voice  called,  ' { You're 
a  bad  cat ;  don't  you  do  that  again  !"    The  voice 
went  on,  as  if  to  some  one  present  :  "  Did  you 
ever  see  such  a  trying  beast  ?     Why,  he's  almost 
human  !     Now,  you  watch ;    the  minute  I  turn 
away  from  that  window,  that  cat  will  pull  up  the 
shade."     It  appeared  that  she  was  right,  for  the 
curtain  instantly  rolled  up  again.     ' <  No,  honey," 
said  Miss  Clark,  "  you    mustn't   encourage    the 
kitty  to  be  naughty.     'Squire,  if  I  let  that  cur 
tain  stay  a  minute,  will  you  behave  !"     A  dog's 
growl  emphasized    this   gentle   reproof.     "You 
see   the    Colonel   disapproves.     Don't   pull    the 
dog's  tail,  honey.    Oh,  mercy  !    'Squire  !"    Amos 
heard  a  crash,  and  in  an  instant  a  flame  shot  up 


THE    NEXT    ROOM  187 

in  a  cone  ;  and  he,  with  one  blow  dislodging  the 
screen  from  the  open  window,  plunged  into  the 
smoke.  The  cat  had  tipped  over  the  lamp,  and 
the  table  was  in  a  blaze.  Amos's  quick  eye 
caught  sight  of  the  box  which  served  Esquire  for 
a  bed.  He  huddled  feather  pillow  and  rug  on 
the  floor  to  invert  the  box  over  the  blaze.  The 
fire  was  out  in  a  moment,  and  Margaret  had 
brought  another  lamp  from  the  kitchen.  Then 
Amos  had  leisure  to  look  about  him.  There  was 
no  one  in  the  room.  Yet  that  was  not  the  most 
pungent  matter  for  thought.  Old  Margaret, 
whom  he  had  considered  one  of  the  plainest 
women  in  the  world,  as  devoid  of  taste  as  of 
beauty,  was  standing  before  him  in  a  black  silk 
gown.  A  fine  black  silk,  he  pronounced  it.  She 
had  soft  lace  about  her  withered  throat,  and  a 
cap  with  pink  ribbons  on  her  gray  hair,  which 
looked  silvery  soft.  Her  skin,  too,  seemed  fairer 
and  finer  :  and  there  were  rings  that  flashed  and 
glowed  on  her  thin  fingers.  It  was  not  Old 
Twentypercent ;  it  was  a  stately  little  gentle 
woman  that  stood  before  him.  ''How  did  you 
happen  to  come,  sir  ?" — she  spoke  with  cold 
ness. 

"I  came  on  an  errand,  and  I  was  just  at  the 
door  when  the  curtain  flew  up  and  the  cat 
jumped  across  the  table/5 


188  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

She  involuntarily  caught  her  breath,  like  one 
relieved  ;  then  she  smiled.  "  You  mustn't  be 
too  hard  on  'Squire  ;  he's  of  a  nervous  tempera 
ment  ;  I  think  he  sees  things — things  outside 
our  ken." 

Meanwhile  Amos  was  unable  not  to  see  that 
there  had  been  on  the  table  a  tumbler  full  of 
some  kind  of  shrub,  fpur  glasses,  and  a  decanter 
of  wine.  And  there  had  been  wine  in  all  the 
glasses.  But  where  were  the  drinkers  ?  There 
were  four  or  five  plates  on  the  table,  and  a  seg 
ment  of  plum-cake  was  trodden  underfoot  on  the 
floor.  Before  she  did  anything  else,  old  Mar 
garet  carefully,  almost  scrupulously,  gathered 
up  the  crumbs  and  carried  them  away.  When 
she  returned  she  carried  a  plate  of  cake  and  a 
glass  of  wine.  This  refreshment  was  proffered 
to  Amos. 

"It's  a  domestic  port,"  she  said,  "but  well 
recommended.  I  should  be  right  glad  to  have 
you  sit  down  and  have  a  glass  of  wine  with  me, 
Mr.  Sheriff." 

"Perhaps  you  mayn't  be  so  glad  when  you 
hear  my  errand,"  said  Amos. 

She  went  white  in  a  second,  and  her  fingers 
curved  inward  like  the  fingers  of  the  dying  ;  she 
was  opening  and  shutting  her  mouth  without 
making  a  sound.  He  had  seen  a  man  hanged 


THE    NEXT    ROOM  189 

once,  and  that  face  had  worn  the  same  ghastly 
stare  of  expectation. 

"  If  you  knew  I  was  come  to  beg  off  one  of 
your  debtors,  for  instance,"  he  went  on  ;  "  that's 
my  errand,  if  you  want  to  know." 

Her  face  changed.  "  It  will  go  better  after  a 
glass  of  wine,"  said  she,  again  proffering  the  wine 
by  a  gesture — she  didn't  trust  her  hand  to  pass 
the  tray. 

Amos  was  a  little  undecided  as  to  the  proper 
formula  to  be  used,  never  having  taken  wine  with 
a  lady  before ;  he  felt  that  the  usual  salutations 
among  "the  boys,"  such  as  "Here's  how  !"  or 
"Happy  days!"  or  "Well,  better  luck  next 
time  !"  savored  of  levity  if  not  disrespect ;  so 
he  grew  a  little  red,  and  the  best  he  could  do 
was  to  mumble,  "Here's  my  respects  to  you, 
madam  !"  in  a  serious  tone,  with  a  bow. 

But  old  Margaret  smiled.  "  It's  a  long  while," 
said  she,  "since  I  have  taken  wine  with  a  —  a 
gentleman  outside  my  own  kin." 

"  Is  that  so  ?"  Amos  murmured,  politely. 
"Well,  it's  the  first  time  I  have  had  that  pleas 
ure  with  a  lady."  He  was  conscious  that  he  was 
pleasing  her,  and  that  she  was  smiling  about 
her,  for  all  the  world  (he  said  to  himself)  as  if 
she  were  exchanging  glances  with  some  one.  A 
new  idea  came  to  him,  and  he  looked  at  her 


190  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

compassionately  while  he  ate  his  cake,  breaking 
off  bits  and  eating  it  delicately,  exactly  as  she  ate. 

She  offered  him  no  explanation  for  the  wine 
glasses  or  for  the  conversation  that  he  had  over 
heard.  He  did  not  hear  a  sound  of  any  other 
life  in  the  house  than  their  own.  The  doors 
were  open,  and  he  could  see  into  the  bedroom 
on  one  side  and  into  the  kitchen  on  the  other. 
She  had  lighted  another  lamp,  enabling  him  to 
distinguish  every  object  in  the  kitchen.  There 
was  not  a  carpet  in  the  house,  and  it  seemed 
impossible  that  any  one  could  be  concealed  so 
quickly  without  making  a  sound. 

Amos  shook  his  head  solemnly.  "  Poor  lady!" 
said  he. 

But  she,  now  her  mysterious  fright  was  passed, 
had  rallied  her  spirits.  Of  her  own  motion  she 
introduced  the  subject  of  his  errand.  "  You 
spoke  of  a  debtor  ;  what's  the  man's  name  ?" 

Amos  gave  her  the  truth  of  the  tale,  and  with 
some  humor  described  the  twins. 

"  Well,  I  reckon  he  has  more  than  paid  it," 
she  said  at  the  end.  "  What  do  you  want  ? 
Were  you  going  to  lend  him  the  money  ?" 

"Well,  only  the  interest  money;  he's  a  good 
fellow,  and  he  has  nine  children." 

"  Who  have  to  be  paid  for  in  advance  ?"  She 
actually  tittered  a  feeble,  surprised  little  laugh, 


THE    NEXT    ROOM  191 

as  she  rose  up  and  stepped  (on  her  toes,  in  the 
prim  manner  once  taught  young  gentlewomen) 
across  the  room  to  the  desk.  She  came  back  with 
a  red -lined  paper  in  her  meagre,  blue -veined 
hand.  She  handed  the  paper  to  Amos.  "That 
is  a  present  to  you." 

"  Not  the  whole  note  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  Because  you  asked  me.  You  tell 
Foley  that.  And  if  he's  got  a  dog  or  a  cat  or  a 
horse,  you  tell  him  to  be  good  to  it." 

This  had  been  a  year  ago ;  and  Amos  was  sure 
that  Foley's  gratitude  would  take  the  form  of  a 
clamor  for  revenge.  Mrs.  Foley  dated  their  pres 
ent  prosperity  entirely  from  that  day  ;  she  had 
superadded  a  personal  attachment  to  an  imper 
sonal  gratitude  ;  she  sold  Miss  Clark  eggs,  and 
little  Mamie  had  the  reversion  of  the  usurer's 
shoes.  Amos  sighed.  "Well,  I  can't  blame 
'em,"  he  muttered.  From  that  day  had  dated 
his  own  closer  acquaintance. 

He  now  occasionally  paid  a  visit  at  the  old 
gentlewoman's  home.  Once  she  asked  him  to 
tea.  And  Raker  went  about  for  days  in  a  broad 
grin  at  the  image  of  Amos,  who,  indeed,  made  a 
very  careful  toilet  with  his  new  blue  sack-coat, 
white  duck  trousers,  and  tan-colored  shoes.  He 
told  Raker  that  he  had  had  a  delightful  supper. 
Mrs.  O'Shea,  the  char-woman,  was  without  at  the 


192  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

kitchen  stove,  and  little  Mamie  Foley  brought  in 
the  hot  waffles  and  jam.  Esquire  Clark  showed 
his  gifts  by  vaulting  over  the  grape-arbor,,  trying 
to  enter  through  the  wire  screen,  bent  on  join 
ing  the  company,,  and  the  Colonel  wept  audibly 
outside,  until  Amos  begged  for  their  admission. 
Safely  on  their  respective  seats,  their  behavior,  in 
general,  was  beyond  criticism.  Only  once  the 
Colonel,  feeling  that  the  frying  chicken  was  un 
conscionably  long  in  coming  his  way,  gave  a  low 
howl  of  irrepressible  feeling  ;  and  Esquire  Clark 
(no  doubt  from  sympathy)  leaped  after  Mamie 
and  the  dish. 

"  'Squire,  I'm  ashamed  of  you  \"  cried  Miss 
Clark  ;  "Archie,  you  know  better  \"  Amos  paid 
no  visible  attention  to  the  change  of  name;  but 
she  must  have  noticed  her  own  slip,  for  she  said: 
"  I  never  told  you  the  Colonel's  whole  name,  did 
I  ?  It's  Colonel  Archibald  Gary.  I'd  like  you 
never  to  mention  it,  though.  And  'Squire  Clark 
is  named  after  an  uncle  of  mine  who  raised  me, 
for  my  parents  died  when  I  was  a  little  girl. 
Clark  Byng  was  his  name,  and  I  called  the  cat 
by  the  first  part  of  it." 

Amos  did  not  know  whether  interest  would  be 
considered  impertinent,  so  he  contented  himself 
with  remarking  that  they  were  "both  pretty 


THE    NEXT    KOOM  193 

"  Uncle  was  a  good  man/7  said  Miss  Clark. 
"  He  was  only  five  feet  four  in  height,  but  very 
fond  of  muscular  games,  and  a  great  admirer 
of  tall  men.  Colonel  Gary  was  six  feet  two.  I 
reckon  that's  about  your  height  ?" 

"  Exactly,  ma'am,"  said  Amos. 

She  sighed  slightly ;  then  turned  the  conver 
sation  to  Amos's  own  affairs. 

An  instinct  of  delicacy  kept  him  from  ever 
questioning  her,  and  she  vouchsafed  him  no  in 
formation.  Once  she  asked  him  to  come  and 
see  her  when  he  wanted  anything  that  she  could 
give  him.  "  I'm  at  home  to  you  every  day,  ex 
cept  the  third  of  the  month/'  said  she.  On  reflec 
tion  Amos  remembered  that  it  was  on  the  third 
that  he  had  paid  his  first  visit  to  Miss  Clark. 

""Well,  ma,"  he  remarked,  walking  up  and 
down  in  front  of  his  mother's  portrait  in  his  of 
fice,  as  his  habit  was,  "  it  is  a  queer  case,  ain't  it? 
But  I'm  not  employed  to  run  the  poor  old  lady 
to  cover,  and  I  sha'n't  let  any  one  else  if  I  can 
help  it." 

Had  Amos  been  vain,  he  would  have  remark 
ed  the  change  in  his  singular  friend  since  their 
friendship  had  begun.  Old  Margaret  wore  the 
decent  black  gown  and  bonnet  becoming  an 
elderly  gentlewoman.  She  carried  a  silk  um 
brella.  The  neighbors  began  to  address  her  as 

13 


194  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

"Miss  Clark.7'  Amos,  however,  was  not  vain, 
and  all  he  told  his  mother's  picture  was  that  the 
old  lady  was  quality,  and  110  mistake. 

By  this  time,  on  divers  occasions,  she  had 
spoken  to  Amos  of  her  South  Carolina  home. 
Once  she  told  him  (in  a  few  words,  and  her 
voice  was  quiet,  but  her  hands  trembled)  of  the 
yellow-fever  time  on  the  lonely  plantation  in  the 
pine  woods,  and  how  in  one  week  her  uncle,  her 
brother  and  his  wife,  and  her  little  niece  had 
died,  and  she  with  her  own  hands  had  helped  to 
bury  them.  "  It  was  no  wonder  I  didn't  see 
things  all  right  after  that,"  she  said.  Another 
time  she  showed  him  a  locket  containing  the  old- 
fashioned  yellow  photograph  of  a  man  in  a  sol 
dier's  uniform.  "  He  was  considered  very  hand 
some,"  said  she.  Amos  found  it  a  handsome 
face.  He  would  have  found  it  so  under  the 
appeal  of  those  piteous  eyes  had  it  been  as  ugly 
as  the  Colonel's.  "  He  was  killed  in  the  war," 
she  said  ;  ' '  shot  while  he  was  on  a  visit  to  us  to 
see  my  sister.  He  ran  out  of  the  house,  and  the 
Yan — your  soldiers  shot  him.  It  was  the  fort 
une  of  war.  I  have  no  right  to  blame  them. 
But  if  he  hadn't  visited  our  fatal  roof  he  might 
be  living  now  ;  for  it  was  in  the  very  last  year  of 
the  war.  I  saw  it.  I  fell  down  as  if  shot  my 
self — better  if  I  had  been." 


THE    NEXT    ROOM  195 

"  Well,  I  call  that  awful  hard/7  said  Amos  ;  "  I 
should  think  you  would  have  gone  crazy  I" 

"Oh  no,  sir,  no!"  she  interrupted,  eagerly. 
"  My  mind  was  perfectly  clear." 

"But  how  you  must  have  suffered  !" 

"  Yes,  I  suffered,"  said  she.  "  I  never  thought 
to  speak  of  it." 

A  week  after  this  conversation  her  nephew 
came.  The  day  was  September  3d.  Nevertheless, 
on  that  Wednesday  night  she  summoned  Amos. 
He  had  been  out  in  the  country ;  but  Mrs.  Raker 
had  heard  through  little  Minnie  Foley,  who  came 
for  some  crab-apples  and  found  Miss  Clark  moan 
ing  on  the  cellar  floor.  The  jail  being  but  a  few 
blocks  away,  Mrs.  Raker  was  on  the  scene  almost 
as  soon  as  George  Washington.  By  the  time 
Amos  arrived  the  two  doctors  had  gone  and 
Miss  Clark  was  in  bed,  and  the  white  bedspread 
or  white  pillows  under  her  head  were  hardly 
whiter  than  her  face. 

"  Mrs.  Raker's  making  some  gruel,"  said  she, 
feebly,  "and  if  you'll  stay  here  I  have  some 
thing  to  say.  It's  an  odd  thing,  you'll  think," 
she  added,  wistfully,  when  he  was  in  the  arm 
chair  by  her  bed  (it  was  one  of  the  chairs  from 
the  other  room,  he  noticed) — "an  odd  thing  for 
a  miserable  old  woman  with  no  kin  and  no  friends 
to  be  loath  to  leave  ;  but  I'm  like  a  cat,  I  reckon. 


196  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

It  near  tore  my  soul  up  by  the  roots  to  leave 
the  old  place,  and  now  it's  as  bad  here." 

"Don't  you  talk  such  nonsense  as  leaving, 
Miss  Clark,"  Amos  tried  to  console  her.  But 
she  shook  her  head.  And  Amos,  recalling  what 
the  doctors  said,  felt  his  words  of  denial  slipping 
back  into  his  throat.  He  essayed  another  tack. 
"  Don't  you  talk  of  having  no  friends  here  either. 
Why,  poor  Mrs.  O'Shea  has  blued  all  my  shirts 
that  she  was  washing,  so  they're  a  sight  to  see — 
all  for  grief ;  and  little  Mamie  Foley  ran  crying 
all  the  way  down  the  street." 

"  The  poor  child  !" 

"  And  why  are  you  leaving  me  out  ?" 

"  I  don't  want  to  leave  you  out,  Mr.  Sheriff — " 

"  Oh,  say  Amos  when  you're  sick,  Miss  Clark," 
he  cried,  impulsively;  she  seemed  so  little,  so 
feeble,  and  so  alone. 

"  You're  a  kind  man,  Amos  Wickliff,"  said 
she.  "  Now  first  tell  me,  would  you  give  the 
Colonel  and  'Squire  a  home  as  long  as  they  need 
it?" 

Amos  gave  an  inward  gasp ;  but  it  may  be  im 
puted  to  him  for  righteousness  some  day  that 
there  was  only  an  imperceptible  pause  before  he 
answered,  "  Yes,  ma'am,  I  will ;  and  take  good 
care  of  them,  too." 

"  Here's   something   for   you,  then  ;    take   it 


THE    NEXT    ROOM     '  197 

now/'  She  handed  him  a  large  envelope,  sealed. 
"It's  for  any  expenses,,  you  know.  And — HI 
send  'em  over  to-morrow." 

He  took  the  package  rather  awkwardly.  "  Now 
you  know  you  have  a  nephew — "  he  began. 

"I  know,  and  I  know  why  he's  here,  too. 
And  in  that  paper  is  my  will ;  but  don't  you  open 
it  till  I'm  dead  a  month,  will  you?" 

Amos  promised  in  spite  of  a  secret  misgiving. 

"  And  now,"  she  went  on,  in  her  nervous  way, 
"  I  want  you  to  do  something  right  kind  for  me — 
not  now — when  Mrs.  Eaker  goes  ;  she's  a  good 
soul,  and  I  hope  you'll  give  her  the  envelope  I've 
marked  for  her.  Yes,  sir,  I  want  you  to  do 
something  for  me  when  she's  gone.  Move  in 
the  four  chairs  from  down-stairs — the  pretty  ones 
— all  the  rest  are  plain,  so  you  can  tell  ;  and 
fetch  me  the  tray  with  the  wineglasses  and  the 
bottle  of  shrub — you'll  find  the  tray  in  the  buffet 
with  the  red  curtains  down-stairs  in  my  office. 
Then  you  go  into  the  kitchen — I  feel  so  sorry  to 
have  to  ask  a  gentleman  to  do  such  things,  but 
I  do  want  them — and  you'll  see  a  round  brown 
box  with  Cake  marked  on  it  in  curly  gilt  letters, 
and  you'll  find  a  frosted  cake  in  there  wrapped 
up  in  tissue-paper  ;  and  you  take  it  out,  and  get 
a  knife  out  of  the  drawer,  and  fetch  all  those 
things  up  to  me.  And  then,  Amos  Wickliff,  all 


198  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

the  friend  I've  got  in  the  world,  you  go  and  stay 
outside— it  ain't  cold  or  I  wouldn't  ask  it  of  you 
— you  stay  until  you  hear  my  bell.  Will  you  ?" 

Amos  took  the  thin  hand,  involuntarily  out 
stretched,  and  patted  it  soothingly  between  both 
his  strong  brown  hands. 

"  Of  course  I  will/'  he  promised.  And  after 
Mrs.  Raker's  departure  he  did  her  bidding,  say 
ing  often  to  himself,  "  Poor  lady!" 

When  the  bell  rang,  and  he  came  back,  the 
wineglasses  and  the  decanter  were  empty,  and 
the  cake  was  half  gone.  He  made  no  comment, 
she  gave  him  no  explanation.  Until  Mrs.  Raker 
returned  she  talked  about  releasing  some  of  her 
debtors. 

The  following  morning  he  came  again. 

"  I  declare,"  thought  Amos,  "  when  I  think  of 
that  morning,  and  how  much  brighter  she  looked, 
it  makes  me  sick  to  think  of  her  as  dead.  She 
had  been  doing  a  lot  of  things  on  the  sly,  help 
ing  folks.  It  was  her  has  been  sending  the 
money  for  the  jail  dinner  on  Christmas,  and  the 
ice-cream  on  the  Fourth,  and  books,  too.  'It's 
so  terrible  to  be  a  prisoner,'  says  she.  Wonder, 
didn't  she  know?  I  declare  I  hate  her  to  be  dead! 
Ain't  it  possible — Lord!  wouldn't  that  be  a  go?" 
He  did  not  express  even  to  himself  his  sudden 
flash  of  light  on  the  mystery.  But  he  went  his 


THE    NEXT    ROOM  199 

ways  to  the  armory  of  the  militia  company,  the 
office  of  the  chief  of  police  (which  was  the  very 
next  building),,  and  to  the  fire  department.  At 
one  of  these  places  he  wrote  out  an  advertise 
ment,  which  the  reporters  read  in  the  evening 
papers,  and  found  so  exciting  that  they  all 
nocked  together  to  discuss  it. 

All  this  did  not  take  an  hour's  time.  It  was 
to  be  observed  that  at  every  place  which  he  vis 
ited  he  first  stepped  to  the  telephone  and  called 
up  the  jail.  "  Are  you  all  right  there,  Raker  ?" 
he  asked.  Then  he  told  where  he  was  going. 
"  If  you  need,  you  can  telephone  me  there/'  he 
said. 

"  I  guess  Amos  isn't  taking  any  chances  on 
this,"  the  youngest  reporter,  who  encountered 
him  on  his  way,  remarked  to  the  chief  of  police. 

The  chief  replied  that  Amos  was  a  careful  man  ; 
he  wished  some  others  would  be  as  careful,  and 
as  sure  they  were  right  before  they  went  ahead  ; 
a  good  deal  of  trouble  would  be  avoided. 

"  That's  right/'  said  the  reporter,  blithely,  and 
went  his  lightsome  way,  while  the  chief  scowled. 

Amos  returned  to  the  jail.  He  found  the 
street  clear,  but  little  knots  of  men  were  gather 
ing  and  then  dispersing  in  the  street  facing  the 
jail.  Amos  thought  that  he  saw  Foley's  face  in 
the  crowd,  but  it  vanished  as  he  tried  to  dis- 


200  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

f 

tinguish  it.  "  No  doubt  he's  egging  them  on/' 
muttered  Amos.  He  was  rather  taken  aback 
when  Raker  (to  whom  he  offered  his  suspicions) 
assured  him,  on  ear  evidence,  that  Foley  was 
preaching  peace  and  obedience  to  the  law.  "  He's 
an  Irishman,  too/'  muttered  Amos  ;  "  that's  aw 
ful  queer."  He  spent  a  long  time  in  a  grim 
reverie,  out  of  which  he  roused  himself  to  de 
spatch  a  boy  for  the  evening  papers.  "  And  you 
mark  that  advertisement,  and  take  half  a  dozen 
copies  to  Foley" — thus  ran  his  directions — "tell 
him  I  sent  them ;  and  if  he  knows  anybody 
would  like  to  read  that  fad/  to  send  a  paper  to 
them.  Understand  ?" 

"Maybe  it's  a  prowl  after  a  will-o'-wisp," 
Amos  sighed,  after  the  boy  was  gone,  "  but  it's 
worth  a  try.  Now  for  our  young  man  !" 

Allerton  was  sitting  in  his  cell,  in  an  attitude 
of  dejection  that  would  have  been  a  grateful 
sight  to  the  crowd  outside.  He  was  a  slim- 
waisted,  broad  -  shouldered,  gentle-  mannered 
young  fellow,  whose  dark  eyes  were  very  bright, 
and  whose  dark  hair  was  curly,  and  longer  than 
hair  is  usually  worn  by  Northerners  not  study 
ing  football  at  the  universities.  He  had  a  mildly 
Roman  profile  and  a  frank  smile.  His  clothes 
seemed  almost  shabby  to  Amos,  who  never 
grudged  a  dollar  of  his  tailor's  bills ;  but  the 


THE    NEXT    ROOM 


201 


little  Southern  village  whence  he  came  was  used 
to  admire  that  glossy  linen  and  that  short-skirt 
ed  black  frock-coat. 

At  Amos's  greeting  he  ran  forward  excitedly. 

"  Are  they  coming  ?"  he  cried.  "  Say,  sheriff, 
you'll  give  me  back  my  pistol  if  they  come  ;  you'll 
give  me  a  show  for  my  life  ?" 

Amos  shrugged  his  shoulders  impatiently. 
"Your  life's  all  right,"  said  he;  "it's  how  to 
keep  from  hurting  the  other  fellows  I'm  after. 
The  fire  department  will  turn  out  and  sozzle  'em 
well,  and  if  that  won't  do  they  will  have  to  face 
the  soldiers  ;  but  I  hope  to  the  Lord  your  aunt 
won't  let  it  come  to  that." 

"  Do  you  think  my  aunt  is  living  ?" 

"I  don't  see  how  she  could  be  burned  up  so 
completely.  But  see  here,  Mr.  Allerton,  wasn't 
there  no  trap-door  in  the  room  ?" 

"No,  sir  ;  there  was  no  carpet  on  the  floor  ;  she 
hadn't  a  carpet  in  the  house.  Besides,  how  could 
she,  sick  as  she  was,  get  down  through  a  trap 
door  and  shut  it  after  her  ?  And  you  could  see 
the  boards,  and  there  was  no  opening  in  them." 

"  So  Mrs.  O'Shea  says,  too,"  mused  the  sheriff  ; 
"but  let's  go  back.  Had  your  aunt  any  motive 
for  trying  to  escape  you  ?" 

"I'm  afraid  she  thought  she  had,"  said  the 
young  man,  gravely. 


202  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

"  Mind  telling  me  ?" 

"  No,  sir.  I  reckon  you  don't  know  my  aunt 
was  crazy  ?" 

"I've  had  some  such  notion.  She  lost  her 
mind  when  they  all  died  of  yellow-fever — or  was 
it  when  Colonel  Gary  was  killed  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  precisely.  I  imagine  that  she 
was  queer  after  his  death,  and  all  the  family  dying 
later,  that  finished  the  wreck.  There  were  some 
painful  circumstances  connected  with  the  colo 
nel's  death—" 

"I've  heard  them." 

"  Yes,  sir.  Well,  sir,  my  mother  was  not  to 
blame — not  so  much  to  blame  as  you  may  think. 
She  was  almost  a  stranger  to  her  sister,  raised  in 
another  State  ;  and  she  had  never  seen  her  or 
Colonel  Gary,  her  betrothed ;  and  when  she  did 
see  him — well,  sir,  my  mother  was  a  beautiful, 
daring,  brilliant  girl,  and  poor  Aunt  Margaret 
timid  and  awkward.  She  broke  the  engagement, 
not  Gary." 

"It  was  to  see  your  mother  he  came  to  the 
plantation  !" 

"Yes,  sir.  And  he  was  killed.  Poor  Aunt 
Margaret  saw  it.  She  came  back  to  the  house 
riding  in  a  miserable  dump  -  cart,  holding  his 
head  in  her  lap.  She  wouldn't  let  my  mother 
come  near  him.  '  Now  he  knows  which  loved 


THE    NEXT    ROOM 


203 


him  best/  she  said.     '  He's  mine  !'     And  it  didn't 
soften  her  when  my  mother  married  my  father. 
She   seemed   to   think   that   proved  she  hadn't 
cared  for  Colonel  Gary.     Then  the  yellow-fever 
came,  and  they  all  went.     Her  mind  broke  down 
completely  then  ;  she  used  to  think  that  on  the 
day  Colonel  Gary  was  shot  they  all  came  back  for 
a  while,  and  she  would  set  chairs  for  them  and 
offer  them  wine  and  cake— as  if  they  were  visit 
ing  her.     And  after  they  left  she  would  pour  the 
wine  in  the  glasses  into  the  grate  and  burn  the 
cake.     She  said   that  they  enjoyed  it,  and  ate 
really,  but  they  left  a  semblance.     She  got  hold 
of  some  queer  books,  I  reckon,  for  she  had  the 
strangest  notions  ;  and  she  spent  no  end  of  money 
on  some  spiritual  mediums  ;  greedy  harpies  that 
got  a  heap  of  money  out  of  her.     My  father  and 
mother  had  come   to  Gary  Hall,  then,  to  live, 
and  of  course   they  didn't  like  it.     The  great 
trouble,  my  mother  often  said  to  me,  was  that 
though  they  were  sisters,  they  were  raised  apart, 
and  were  as  much  strangers  as — we  are.     You 
can  imagine  how  they  felt  to  see  the  property 
being   squandered.     Ten   thousand   dollars,  sir, 
went  in  one  year — " 

"  Are  you  sure  it  did  go  ?"  said  the  sheriff. 

"  Well,  the  property  was  sold,  and  we  never 
saw  anything  afterwards  of  the  money.    And  the 


204  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

estate  wasn't  a  bottomless  well.  It  isn't  so 
strange,  sir,,  that  —  that  they  had  poor  Aunt 
Margaret  cared  for." 

"At  an  insane  asylum  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,  for  five  years.  I  confess,"  said  the 
young  man,  jumping  up  and  pacing  the  room — 
"I  confess  I  think  it  was  a  horrible  place,  horri 
ble.  But  they  didn't  know.  It  was  only  after 
she  recovered  her  senses  and  was  released  that 
we  began  to  understand  what  she  suffered.  Not 
so  much  then,  for  she  was  shy  of  us  all.  She 
was  so  scared,  poor  thing  !  And  then — we  began 
to  suspect  that  she  was  not  cured  of  her  delu 
sions.  Maybe  there  were  consultations  and  talk 
about  her,  though  indeed,  sir,  my  mother  has  as 
sured  me  many  times  that  there  was  no  intention 
of  sending  her  back.  But  she  is  very  shrewd, 
and  she  would  notice  how  doors  would  be  shut 
and  the  conversation  would  be  changed  when  she 
entered  a  room,  and  her  suspicions  were  aroused. 
She  managed  to  raise  some  money  on  a  mortgage, 
and  she  ran  away,  leaving  not  a  trace  behind  her. 
My  mother  has  reproached  herself  ever  since. 
And  we've  tried  to  find  her.  It  has  preyed  upon 
my  mother's  mind  that  she  might  be  living  some 
where,  poor  and  lonely  and  neglected.  We  are 
not  rich  people,"  said  the  young  man,  lifting  his 
head  proudly,  "but  we  have  enough.  I  come  to 


THE    NEXT    ROOM  205 

offer  Annt  Margaret  money,  not  to  ask  it.  We've 
kept  up  the  place,  and  bit  by  bit  paid  off  the 
mortgage,  though  it  has  come  hard  sometimes. 
And  it  was  awkward  the  title  being  in  that  kind 
of  shape,  and  ma  wouldn't  for  a  long  time  get  it 
quieted." 

"But  how  did  you  ever  find  out  she  was 
here?" 

The  young  Southerner  smiled.  "  I  reckon  I 
owe  being  in  this  scrape  at  all  to  your  gentlemen 
of  the  press.  One  of  them  wrote  a  kind  of  char 
acter-sketch  about  her,  describing  her — " 

i(  I  know.  He's  the  youngest  man  on  the  list, 
and  an  awful  liar,  but  he  does  write  a  mighty 
readable  story." 

"  He  did  this  time,"  said  Allerton,  dryly  ;  "  so 
readable  it  was  copied  in  the  papers  all  over,  I 
expect ;  anyhow,  it  was  copied  in  our  local  sheet 
— inside,  where  they  have  the  patent  insides,  you 
know.  It  was  entitled  '  A  Usurer,  but  Merci 
ful  !'  I  showed  it  to  my  mother,  and  she  was 
sure  it  was  Aunt  Margaret.  Even  the  name  was 
right,  for  her  whole  name  is  Margaret  Clark 
Gary.  She  hadn't  the  heart  to  cast  the  name 
away,  and  she  thought,  Clark  being  a  common 
name,  she  wouldn't  be  discovered." 

Amos,  who  had  sat  down,  was  nursing  his 
ankle.  "  Do  you  suppose,"  said  he,  slowly — "  do 


206  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

yon  suppose  that  taking  it  to  be  the  case  she 
wasn't  so  much  hurt  as  the  doctors  supposed,, 
that  then  she  could  get  out  of  the  room  ?" 

"  I  don't  see  how  she  could.  She  was  in  the 
room,  in  the  bed,  when  I  went  out.  I  sat  down 
before  the  door.  She  couldn't  pass  me.  I 
heard  a  screech  after  a  while,  a  mighty  queer 
sound,  and  I  ran  in.  Sir,  I  give  you  my  word  of 
honor,  the  bed  was  empty  !  the  room  was  empty  I" 

"  How  was  the  room  lighted  ?" 

"By  a  large  lamp  with  a  Rochester  burner, 
and  some  fancy  of  hers  had  made  her  keep  it 
turned  up  at  full  blaze.  Oh,  you  could  see 
every  inch  of  the  room  at  a  glance  !  And  then, 
too,  I  ran  all  round  it  before  I  ran  to  the  window, 
pushed  it  up,  and  looked  out.  I  would  be  will 
ing  to  take  my  oath  that  the  room  was  empty." 

"You  looked  under  the  bed  ?" 

"  Of  course.  And  in  the  closet.  I  tell  you, 
sir,  there  was  no  one  in  the  room." 

Amos  sat  for  the  space  of  five  minutes,  it 
seemed  to  the  young  man,  really  perhaps  for 
a  full  minute,  thinking  deeply.  Then,  "  I 
can't  make  it  out,"  said  he,  "but  I  be 
lieve  you  are  telling  the  truth."  He  stood 
up  ;  the  young  man  also  rose.  In  the  silence 
wherein  the  younger  man  tried  to  formulate 
something  of  his  gratitude  and  yet  keep  his  lip 


THE    NEXT    ROOM  207 

from  quivering  (for  he  had  been  sore  beset  by 
homesickness  and  divers  ugly  fears  during  the 
last  day),  the  roar  of  the  crowd  without  beat 
through  the  bars,  swelling  ominously.  And  now, 
all  of  an  instant,  the  jail  was  penetrated  by  a 
din  of  its  own  making.  The  prisoners  lost  their 
heads.  They  began  to  scream  inquiries,  to  shriek 
at  each  other.  Two  women  whose  drunken  dis 
order  had  gone  beyond  the  station-house  re 
straints,  and  who  were  spending  a  week  in  jail, 
burst  into  deafening  wails,  partly  from  fright, 
partly  from  pity,  and  largely  from  the  general 
craving  of  their  condition  to  make  a  noise. 

"Never  mind,"  said  Amos,  laying  a  kindly 
hand  on  young  Allerton's  shoulder,  "  the  Com 
pany  B  boys  are  all  in  the  yard.  But  I  guess  you 
will  feel  easier  if  you  go  down-stairs.  Parole  of 
honor  you  won't  skip  off  ?" 

"  Oh,  God  bless  you,  sir  I"  cried  Allerton. 
"I  couldn't  bear  to  die  this  way;  it  would  kill 
my  mother  !  Yes,  yes,  of  course  I  give  my  word. 
Only  let  me  have  a  chance  to  fight,  and  die  fight- 
ing-" 

"No  dying  in  the  case,"  Amos  interrupted; 
"  but  what  in  thunder  are  the  cusses  cheering  for? 
Come  on  ;  this  needs  looking  into.  Cheering !" 

He  hurried  down  the  heavy  stairs  into  the  hall, 
where  Raker,  a  little  paler,  and  Mrs.  Baker,  a 


208  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

little  more  flushed  than  usual,  were  examining 
the  bolts  of  the  great  door. 

Amos  flung  a  glare  of  scorn  at  it,  and  he 
snorted  under  his  breath  :  "  Locks  !  No  need 
of  locking  You!  I  could  bust  you  with  the 
hose  !" 

As  if  in  answer,  the  cheering  burst  forth  anew, 
and  now  it  was  coupled  with  his  name  :  "  Wick- 
liff  !  Amos  !  Amos !" 

"  Let  me  out  I"  commanded  Wicklifl3,  and  he 
slipped  back  the  bolts.  He  stepped  under  the 
light  of  the  door-lamp  outside,  tall  and  strong, 
and  cool  as  if  he  had  a  Gatling  gun  beside  him. 

A  cheer  rolled  up  from  the  crowd — yes,  not 
only  from  the  crowd,  but  from  the  blue-coated 
ranks  massed  to  one  side,  and  the  young  faces 
behind  the  bayonets. 

Amos  stared.  He  looked  fiercely  from  the 
mob  to  the  guardians  of  the  law.  Then,  amid  a 
roar  of  laughter,  for  the  crowd  perfectly  under 
stood  his  gesture  of  bewilderment  and  anger, 
Foley's  voice  bellowed,  "  All  right,  sheriff;  we've 
got  her  safe  \" 

They  tell  to  this  day  how  the  iron  sheriff, 
whose  composure  had  been  proof  against  every 
test  brought  against  it,  and  whom  no  man  had 
ever  before  seen  to  quail,  actually  staggered 


THE   NEXT    ROOM 


against  the  door.  Then  he  gave  them  a  broad 
grin  of  his  own,  and  shouted  with  the  rest,  for 
there  in  the  heart  of  the  rush  jailward,  lifted 
up  on  a  chair — loaned,  as  afterwards  appeared 
(when  it  came  to  the  time  for  returning),  from 
Hans  Obermann's  "  Place  " — sat  enthroned  old 
Margaret  Clark  ;  and  she  was  looking  as  if  she 
liked  it  ! 

They  got  her  to  the  jail  porch  ;  Amos  pacified 
the  crowd  with  free  beer  at  Obermann's,  and 
carried  her  over  the  threshold  in  his  arms. 

He  put  her  down  in  the  big  arm-chair  in  his 
office,  opposite  the  portraits  of  his  parents,  and 
Esquire  Clark  slid  into  the  room  and  purred  at 
her  feet,  while  Mrs.  Kaker  fanned  her.  It  was 
rather  a  chilly  evening,  the  heat  having  given 
place  to  cold  in  the  sudden  fashion  of  the  cli 
mate  ;  but  good  Mrs.  Raker  knew  what  was  due 
to  a  person  in  a  faint  or  likely  to  faint,  and  she 
did  not  permit  the  weather  to  disturb  her  rules. 
Calmly  she  began  to  fan,  saying  meanwhile,  in  a 
soothing  tone,  "  There,  there,  don't  you  worry ! 
it's  all  right  !" 

Raker  stood  by,  waiting  for  orders  and  smiling 
feebly.  And  young  Allerton  simply  gasped. 

"You  were  at  Foley's,  then  ?"  Amos  was  the 
first  to  speak — apart  from  Mrs.  Raker's  crooning, 
which,  indeed,  was  so  far  automatic  that  it  can 

14 


210  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

hardly  be  called  speech ;  it  was  merely  a  vocal 
exercise  intended  to  quiet  the  mind.  "You  were 
at  Foley's,  then  ?"  says  Amos. 

' '  Yes,  sir,"  very  calmly  ;  but  her  hands  were 
clinching  the  arms  of  the  chair. 

"  And  you  saw  my  advertisement  in  this  even 
ing  paper  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir ;  Foley  read  it  out  to  me.  You 
begged  M.  C.  C.  to  come  back  and  help  you 
because  you  were  in  great  embarrassment  and 
trouble — and  you  promised  me  nobody  should 
harm  me." 

"  No  more  nobody  shall  !"  returned  Amos. 

"But  maybe  you  can't  help  it.  Never  mind. 
When  I  heard  about  how  they  were  talking  about 
lynching  him" — she  indicated  her  nephew — "I 
felt  terrible ;  the  sin  of  blood-guiltiness  seemed 
to  be  resting  on  my  soul ;  but  I  couldn't  help 
it.  Mr.  Sheriff,  you  don't  know  I — I  was  once 
in — in  an  insane  asylum.  I  was  !" 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  Amos.  "  I  know  all 
about  that." 

"  There,  there,  there  !"  murmured  Mrs.  Ra 
ker,  "don't  think  of  it  !" 

"  It  wasn't  that  they  were  cruel  to  me — they 
weren't  that.  They  never  struck  or  starved  me ; 
they  just  gave  me  awful  drugs  to  keep  me  quiet ; 
and  they  made  me  sit  all  day,  every  day,  week 


THE   NEXT    ROOM  211 

in,  week  out,  month  in,  month  out,  on  a  bench 
with  other  poor  creatures,  who  had  enough  com 
pany  in  their  horrible  dreams.  If  I  lifted  my 
hands  there  was  some  one  to  put  them  down 
to  my  side  and  say,  in  a  soft  voice,  '  Hush,  be 
quiet !'  That  was  their  theory— absolute  rest ! 
They  thought  I  was  crazy  because  I  could  see 
more  than  they,  because  I  had  visitors  from  the 
spirit-land — " 

"  I  know/'  interrupted  Amos.  "  I  was  there 
one  night.  But  I—" 

"  You  couldn't  see  them.  It  was  only  I.  They 
came  to  me.  It  was  more  than  a  year  after  they 
all  died,  and  I  was  so  lonely— oh,  nobody  knows 
how  desolate  and  lonely  I  was  !  —  and  then  a 
medium  came.  She  taught  me  how  to  summon 
them.  At  first,  though  I  made  all  the  prepara 
tions,  though  I  put  out  the  whist  cards  for  un 
cle  and  Ralph  and  Sadie,  and  the  toys  for  little 
Ro,  I  couldn't  seem  to  think  they  were  there ; 
but  I  kept  on  acting  as  if  I  knew  they  were 
there,  and  having  faith  ;  and  at  last  they  did 
come.  But  they  wouldn't  come  in  the  asylum, 
because  the  conditions  weren't  right.  So  at  last 
I  felt  I  couldn't  bear  it  any  longer.  I  felt  like 
I  was  false  to  the  heavenly  vision ;  but  I  couldn't 
stand  it,  and  so  I  pretended  I  didn't  see  them 
and  I  never  had  seen  them  ;  and  whatever  they 


212  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

said  I  ought  to  feel  I  pretended  to  feel,  and  I 
said  how  wonderful  it  was  that  I  should  be 
cured  ;  and  that  made  them  right  pleased  ;  and 
they  felt  that  I  was  quite  a  credit  to  them,  and 
they  wrote  my  sister  that  I  was  cured.  I  went 
home,  but  only  to  be  suspected  again,  and  so  I 
ran  away.  I  had  put  aside  money  before,  thou 
sands  of  dollars,  that  they  thought  that  I  spent. 
They  thought  I  gave  a  heap  of  it  to  that  me 
dium  and  her  husband  ;  I  truly  only  gave  them 
five  hundred  dollars.  So  I  went  forth.  I  hid 
myself  here.  I  was  happy  here,  where  they 
could  come,  until — until  I  saw  Archibald  Aller- 
ton  on  the  street  and  overheard  him  inquiring 
for  me.  I  was  dreadfully  upset.  But  I  decided 
in  a  minute  to  flee  again.  So  I  drew  some 
money  out  of  the  bank,  and  I  bought  a  blue 
calico  and  a  sun-bonnet  not  to  look  like  myself  ; 
and  I  went  home  and  wrote  that  letter  I  gave 
you,  Mr.  Sheriff,  with  my  will  and  the  money." 

"The  parcel  is  unopened  still,"  said  Amos. 
"  I  gave  you  my  word,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  I  knew  you  would  keep  your 
word.  And  it  was  just  after  I  wrote  you  I  slipped 
down  the  cellar  stairs.  It  came  of  being  in  a 
hurry.  I  made  sure  I  never  would  get  on  my 
feet  again,  but  very  soon  I  discovered  that  I  was 
more  scared  than  hurt.  And  I  saw  then  there 


THE   NEXT    ROOM  213 

might  be  a  chance  of  keeping  him  off  his  guard 
if  he  thought  I  was  like  to  die,  and  that  thus 
I  might  escape  the  readier.  It  was  not  hard  to 
fool  the  doctors.  I  did  just  the  same  with  them 
I  did  with  the  asylum  folks.  I  said  yes  when 
ever  I  thought  they  expected  it,  and  though  I 
had  some  contradictory  symptoms,  they  made 
out  a  bad  state  of  things  with  the  spine,  and 
gave  mighty  little  hope  of  my  recovery.  But 
what  I  hadn't  counted  on  was  that  my  friends 
would  take  such  good  care  of  me.  I  didn't 
know  I  had  friends.  It  pleased  me  so  I  was 
wanting  to  cry  for  joy  ;  yet  it  frightened  me  so 
I  didn't  know  which  way  to  turn." 

"  But,  great  heavens  !  Aunt  Margaret,"  the 
young  Southerner  burst  out,  unable  to  restrain 
himself  longer,  "you  had  no  need  to  be  so  afraid 
of  me  r 

The  old  woman  looked  at  him,  more  in  sus 
picion  than  in  hope,  but  she  went  on,  not  an 
swering  :  "  The  night  I  did  escape,  it  was  by 
accident.  I  never  would  say  one  word  to  him 
hardly,  though  he  tried  again  and  again  to  start 
a  talk  ;  but  I  would  seem  too  ill ;  and  he's  a 
Gary,  anyhow,  and  couldn't  be  rude  to  a  lady. 
That  night  he  went  into  the  other  room.  He 
was  so  quiet  I  reckoned  he  was  asleep,  and,  think 
ing  that  here  might  be  a  chance  for  me,  I  slipped 


214  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

out  of  bed,  soft  as  soft,  and  slipped  over  to  the 
crack  of  the  door — it  just  wasn't  closed  ! — and 
I  peeked  in  on  him — " 

"And  you  were  behind  the  door  when  he 
heard  the  noise  ?"  exclaimed  Amos.  "  But  what 
made  the  noise  ?" 

"Oh,  I  reckon  just  'Squire  jumping  out  of  the 
window  ;  he  gave  a  kind  of  screech." 

"  But  I  don't  understand/'  cried  Allerton. 
"  I  went  into  the  room,  and  it  was  empty." 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Miss  Gary,  plucking  up  more 
spirit  in  the  presence  of  Wickliff — "  no,  sir ;  I 
was  behind  the  door.  You  didn't  push  it  shut." 

"  But  I  ran  all  round  the  room." 

"  No,  sir  ;  not  till  you  looked  out  of  the  win 
dow.  While  you  were  looking  out  of  the  win 
dow  I  slipped  out  of  the  door ;  and  I  was  so 
scared  lest  you  should  see  me  that  I  wasn't  afraid 
of  anything  else  ;  and  I  got  down  -  stairs  while 
you  were  looking  in  the  closet,  and  found  my 
clothes  there,  and  so  got  out." 

te  But  I  was  sure  I  went  round  the  room  first," 
cried  Allerton. 

"  Very  likely  ;  but  you  see  you  didn't,"  re 
marked  Amos. 

"It  was  because  I  remembered  stubbing  my 
toe" — Allerton  was  painfully  ploughing  up  his 
memories — "  I  am  certain  I  stubbed  my  toe,  and 


THE  NEXT  ROOM  215 

it  must  have  been  going  round  the — no  ;  by — 
I  beg  your  pardon — I  stubbed  it  against  the  bed, 
going  to  the  window.  I  was  all  wrong." 

" Just  so/''  agreed  Amos,  cheerfully.  "And 
then  you  went  to  Foley,  Miss  Gary.  Trust  an 
Irishman  for  hiding  anybody  in  trouble  !  But 
how  did  the  house  catch  fire  ?  Did  you — " 

But  old  Margaret  protested  vehemently  that 
here  at  least  she  was  sackless  ;  and  Mrs.  Raker 
unexpectedly  came  to  the  rescue. 

"I  guess  I  can  tell  that  much/'  said  she. 
"  'Squire  came  back,  and  he's  got  burns  all  over 
him,  and  he's  cut  with  glass  bad  !  I  guess  he 
jumped  back  into  the  house  and  upset  a  lamp 
once  too  often  !" 

"I  see  it  all/'  said  Amos.  "And  then  you 
came  back  to  rescue  your  nephew — " 

"  No,  sir,"  cried  Margaret  Gary  ;  "  I  came 
back  because  they  said  you  were  in  trouble.  It's 
wicked,  but  I  couldn't  bear  the  thought  he'd 
take  me  back  to  the  crazies.  I'm  an  old  woman ; 
and  when  you're  old  you  want  to  live  in  a  house 
of  your  own,  in  your  own  way,  and  not  be 
crowded.  And  it's  so  awful  to  be  crowded  by 
crazies  !  I  couldn't  bear  it.  I  said  he  must  take 
his  chance  ;  and  I  wouldn't  read  the  papers  for 
fear  they  would  shake  my  resolution.  It  was 
Foley  read  your  advertisement  to  me.  And  then 


216  THE    MISSIONARY   SHERIFF 

I  knew  if  yon  were  in  danger,  whatever  happened 
to  me,  I  would  have  to  go." 

Amos  wheeled  round  on  young  Allerton. 
"Now,  young  fellow/'  said  he,  "speak  out. 
Tell  your  aunt  you  won't  touch  a  hair  of  her 
head  ;  and  she  may  have  her  little  invisible  fam 
ily  gatherings  all  she  likes." 

Allerton,  smiling,  came  forward  and  took  his 
aunt's  trembling  hand.  "You  shall  stay  here 
or  go  home  to  your  sister,  who  loves  you,  which 
ever  you  choose;  and  you  shall  be  as  safe  and 
free  there  as  here,"  said  he. 

And  looking  into  his  dark  eyes  —  the  Gary 
eyes — she  believed  him. 

The  youngest  reporter  never  heard  the  details 
of  the  Clark  mystery,  but  no  doubt  he  made 
quite  as  good  a  story  as  if  he  had  known  the 
truth. 


THE   DEFEAT    OF  AMOS   WICKLIFF 


THE  DEFEAT   OF   AMOS   WICKLIFF 


WHAT'S  the  matter  with  Amos  ?"  Mrs. 
Smith  asked  Ruth  Graves;  "the  boy 
doesn't  seem  like  himself  at  all." 
Amos,  at  this  speaking,  was  nearer  forty  than 
thirty ;  but  ever  since  her  own  son's  death  he 
had  been  "her  boy"  to  Edgar's  mother.  She 
looked  across  at  Ruth  with  a  wistful  kindling  of 
her  dim  eyes.  "You  — you  haven't  said  any 
thing  to  Amos  to  hurt  his  feelings,  Ruth  ?" 

Ruth,  busy  over  her  embroidery  square,  set 
her  needle  in  with  great  nicety,  and  replied,  "I 
don't  think  so,  dear."  Her  color  did  not  turn 
nor  her  features  stir,  and  Mrs.  Smith  sighed. 

After  a  moment  she  rose,  a  little  stiffly — she 
had  aged  since  Edgar's  death — walked  over  to 
Ruth,  and  lightly  stroked  the  sleek  brown  head. 
"  I've  a  very  great — respect  for  Amos,"  she  said. 
Then,  her  eyes  filling,  she  went  out  of  the  room; 
so  she  did  not  see  Ruth's  head  drop  lower.  Re- 


THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 


spect  ?  But  Ruth  herself  respected  him.  No 
one,  no  one  so  much !  But  that  was  all.  He 
was  the  best,  the  bravest  man  in  the  world  ;  but 
that  was  all.  While  poor,  weak,  faulty  Ned — 
how  she  had  loved  him  !  Why  couldn't  she  love 
a  right  man  ?  Why  did  not  admiration  and  re 
spect  and  gratitude  combined  give  her  one  throb 
of  that  lovely  feeling  that  Ned's  eyes  used  to 
give  her  before  she  knew  that  they  were  false  ? 
Yet  it  was  not  Ned's  spectral  hand  that  chilled 
her  and  held  her  back.  Three  years  had  passed 
since  he  died,  and  before  he  died  she  had  so 
completely  ceased  to  love  him  that  she  could 
pity  him  as  well  as  his  mother.  The  scorching 
anger  was  gone  with  the  love.  But  somehow,  in 
the  immeasurable  humiliation  and  anguish  of 
that  passage,  it  was  as  if  her  whole  soul  were 
burned  over,  and  the  very  power  of  loving  shriv 
elled  up  and  spoiled.  How  else  could  she  keep 
from  loving  Amos,  who  had  done  everything 
(she  told  herself  bitterly)  that  Ned  had  missed 
doing  ?  And  she  gravely  feared  that  Amos  had 
grown  to  care  for  her.  A  hundred  trifles  be 
trayed  his  secret  to  her  who  had  known  the 
glamour  that  imparadises  the  earth,  and  never 
would  know  it  any  more.  Mrs.  Smith  had  seen 
it  also.  Ruth  remembered  the  day,  nearly  a 
year  ago,  that  she  had  looked  up  (she  was  sing- 


THE   DEFEAT  OF   AMOS   WICKLIFF  221 

ing  at  their  cabinet  organ,  singing  hymns  of  a 
Sunday  evening)  and  had  caught  the  look,  not 
on  Amos's  face,  but  on  the  kind  old  face  that 
was  like  her  mother's.  She  understood  why, 
the  next  day,  Mrs.  Smith  moved  poor  Ned's 
picture  from  the  parlor  to  her  own  chamber, 
where  there  were  four  photographs  of  him  al 
ready. 

"And  now  she  is  reconciled  to  what  will  nev 
er  happen/'  thought  Ruth,  "and  is  afraid  it 
won't  happen.  Poor  Mother  Smith,  it  never 
will  I"  She  wished,  half  irritably,  that  Amos 
would  let  a  comfortable  situation  alone.  Of 
late,  during  the  month  or  six  weeks  past,  he  had 
appeared  beset  by  some  hidden  trouble.  When 
he  did  not  reckon  that  he  was  observed  his 
countenance  would  wear  an  expression  of  harsh 
melancholy ;  and  more  than  once  had  she  caught 
his  eyes  tramping  through  space  after  her  with 
a  look  that  made  her  recall  the  lines  of  Tenny 
son  Ned  used  to  quote  to  her  in  jest — for  she 
had  never  played  with  him  : 

"Right  thro'  his  manful  breast  darted  the  pang 
That  makes  a  man,  in  the  sweet  face  of  her 
That  he  loves  most,  lonely  and  miserable." 

Then,  for  a  week  at  a  time,  he  would  not  come 
to  the  village ;  he  said  he  was  busy  with  a  mur- 


222  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

der  trial.  He  was  not  at  their  house  to-day;  it 
was  they  who  were  awaiting  his  return  from  the 
court-house,  in  his  own  rooms  at  the  jail,  after 
the  most  elaborate  midday  dinner  Mrs.  Raker 
could  devise.  The  parlor  was  less  resplendent 
and  far  prettier  than  of  yore.  Ruth  knew  that 
the  change  had  come  about  through  her  own 
suggestions,  which  the  docile  Amos  was  always 
asking.  She  knew,  too,  that  she  had  not  looked 
so  young  and  so  dainty  for  years  as  she  looked 
in  her  new  brown  cloth  gown,  with  the  fur  trim 
ming  near  enough  a  white  throat  to  enhance 
its  soft  fairness.  Yet  she  sighed.  She  wished 
heartily  that  they  had  not  come  to  town.  True, 
they  needed  the  things,  and,  much  to  Mother 
Smith's  discomfiture,  she  had  insisted  on  going 
to  a  modest  hotel  near  the  jail,  instead  of  to 
Amos's  hospitality  ;  but  it  was  out  of  the  ques 
tion  not  to  spend  one  day  with  him.  Ruth  be 
gan  to  fear  it  would  be  a  memorable  day. 

There  were  his  clothes,  for  instance ;  why 
should  he  make  himself  so  fine  for  them,  when 
his  every-day  suit  was  better  than  other  people's 
Sunday  best  ?  Ruth  took  an  unconscious  de 
light  in  Amos's  wardrobe.  There  was  a  finish 
about  his  care  of  his  person  and  his  fine  linen 
and  silk  and  his  freshly  pressed  clothes  which 
she  likened  to  his  gentle  manner  with  women 


THE   DEFEAT   OP   AMOS   WICKLIFF  223 

and  the  leisurely,  pleasant  cadence  of  his  voice, 
which  to  her  quite  mended  any  breaks  in  her 
admiration  made  by  a  reckless  and  unprotected 
grammar.  Although  she  could  not  bring  herself 
to  marry  him,  she  considered  him  a  man  that 
any  girl  might  be  proud  to  win.  Quite  the  same, 
his  changing  his  dress  put  her  in  a  panic.  Which 
was  nonsense,  since  she  didn't  have  any  reason 
to  suppose —  The  cold  chills  were  stepping  up 
her  spine  to  the  base  of  her  brain  ;  that  was  his 
step  in  the  hall  ! 

He  opened  the  door.  He  was  fresh  and 
pressed  from  the  tailor,  he  was  smooth  and  per 
fumed  from  the  barber,  and  his  best  opal-and- 
diamond  scarf-pin  blazed  in  a  new  satin  scarf. 
Certainly  his  presence  was  calculated  to  alarm  a 
young  woman  afraid  of  love-making. 

Nor  did  his  words  reassure  her.  He  said, 
"Ruth,  I  don't  know  if  you  have  noticed  that 
I  was  worried  lately." 

"I  thought  maybe  you  were  bothered  about 
some  business,"  lied  Ruth,  with  the  first  defen 
sive  instinct  of  woman. 

"Yes,  that's  it;  it's  about  a  man  sentenced 
to  death." 

"Oh!"  said  Ruth. 

"Yes,  for  killing  Johnny  Bateman.  He's 
applied  for  a  new  trial,  and  the  court  has  just 


224  THE    MISSIONARY   SHERIFF 

been  heard  from.  Raker's  gone  to  find  out.  If 
he  can't  get  the  hearing,  it's  the  gallows;  and 
I—" 

"  Oh,  Amos,  no  !  that  would  be  too  awful ! 
Not  you  r 

" — I'd  rather  resign  the  office,  if  it  wouldn't 
seem  like  sneaking.  Ah  !"  A  rap  at  the  door 
made  Amos  leap  to  his  feet.  In  the  rap,  so 
muffled,  so  hesitating,  sounded  the  diffidence 
of  the  bearer  of  bad  news.  "  If  that's  Raker," 
groaned  Amos,  "it's  all  up,  for  that  ain't  his 
style  of  knock  !" 

Raker  it  was,  and  his  face  ran  his  tidings 
ahead  of  him. 

"  They  refused  a  new  trial  ?"  said  Amos. 

"Yes,  they  have,"  exploded  Raker.  "Oh, 
damn  sech  justice  !  And  he's  only  got  three  days 
before  the  execution.  And  it's  here!  Oh,  ain't 
it  h— ?" 

"Yes,  it  is,"  said  Amos,  "but  you  needn't 
say  so  here  before  ladies."  He  motioned  to  the 
portrait  and  to  Ruth,  who  had  leaned  out  from 
her  chair,  listening  with  a  pale,  attentive  face. 

"  Please  excuse  me,  ladies,"  said  Raker,  ab 
sently;  "I'm  kinder  off  my  base  this  morning. 
You  see,  Amos,  my  wife  she  says  if  hanging  Sol 
is  my  duty  Fve  jest  got  to  resign,  for  she  won't 
live  with  no  hangman.  She's  terrible  upset," 


THE   DEFEAT   OP   AMOS  WICKLIFF  225 

"  It  ain't  your  duty  ;  it's  mine/'  said  Amos. 

"  I  guess  y6u  don't  like  the  job  any  more'n 
me/'  stammered  Raker,  "and  it  ain't  like  Joe 
Raker  sneakin'  off  this  way ;  but  what  can  I  do 
with  my  woman  ?  And  maybe  you,  not  having 
any  wife — " 

"No,"  said  Amos,  very  slowly,  "I  haven't 
got  any  wife ;  it's  easier  for  me."  Nevertheless, 
the  blood  had  ebbed  from  his  swarthy  cheeks. 

"  But  how  did  it  happen  ?"  said  Ruth. 

"  'Ain't  Amos  told  you  ?"  said  Raker,  whose 
burden  was  visibly  lightened — he  pitied  Amos 
sincerely,  but  it  is  much  less  distressful  to  pity 
one's  friends  than  to  need  to  pity  one's  self. 
"  Well,  this  was  the  way  :  Sol  Joscelyn  was  a 
rougher  in  the  steel-works  across  the  river,  and 
he  has  a  sweetheart  over  here,  and  he  took  her 
to  the  big  Catholic  fair,  and  Johnny  was  there. 
Johnny  was  the  biggest  policeman  on  the  force  and 
the  best-natured,  and  he  had  a  girl  of  his  own,  it 
came  out,  so  there  was  no  cause  for  Sol  to  be  jeal 
ous.  He  says  now  it  was  his  fault,  and  she  says 
'twas  all  hers ;  but  my  notion  is  it  was  the  same 
old  story.  Breastpins  in  a  pig's  nose  ain't  in  it 
with  a  pretty  girl  without  common-sense ;  and 
that's  Scriptur',  Mrs.  Raker  says.  But  Sol  felt 
awful  bad,  and  he  felt  so  bad  he  went  out  and  took 
a  drink.  He  took  a  good  many  drinks,  I  guess  ; 

15 


THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 


and  not  being  a  drinkin'  man  he  didn't  know 
how  to  carry  it  off,  and  he  certainly  didn't  have 
any  right  to  go  back  to  the  hall  in  the  shape  he 
was  in.  It  was  a  friendly  part  in  Johnny  to  take 
him  off  and  steer  him  to  the  ferry.  But  there 
was  a  little  bad  look  about  it,  though  Sol  went 
peaceful  at  last.  Sol  says  they  had  got  down  to 
Front  Street,  and  it  was  all  friendly  and  cleared 
up,  and  he  was  terrible  ashamed  of  himself  the 
minnit  he  got  out  in  the  air.  He  was  ahead,  he 
says,  crossing  the  street,  when  he  heard  Johnny's 
little  dog  yelp  like  mad,  and  he  turned  round — 
of  course  he  wasn't  right  nimble,  and  it  was  a 
little  while  before  he  found  poor  Johnny,  all 
doubled  up  on  the  sidewalk,  stabbed  in  the 
jugular  vein.  He  never  made  a  sign.  Sol  got 
up  and  ran  after  the  murderer.  The  mean  part 
is  that  two  men  in  a  saloon  saw  Sol  just  as  he 
got  up  and  ran.  Naturally  they  ran  after  him 
and  started  the  hue-and-cry,  and  Sol  was  so 
dazed  he  didn't  explain  much.  Have  I  got  it 
straight,  Amos  ?" 

"  Very  straight,  Joe.  You  might  put  in  that 
the  prosecuting  attorney,  Frank  Woods,  is  on 
his  first  term  and  after  laurels;  and  that,  un 
luckily,  there  have  been  three  murders  in  this 
locality  inside  the  year,  and  by  hook  or  crook 
all  three  of  the  men  got  off  with  nothing  but  a 


THE   DEFEAT   OF   AMOS   WICKLIFF  227 

few  years  at  Anamosa ;  and  public  sentiment,  in 
consequence,  is  pretty  well  stirred  up,  and  not 
so  particular  about  who  it  hits  as  hitting  some 
body  ;  and  that  poor  Sol  had  a  chump  of  a 
lawyer — and  you  have  the  state  of  things." 

"  But  why  are  you  so  sure  he  wasn't  guilty  ?" 
said  Ruth.  The  shocked  look  on  her  face  was 
fading.  She  was  thinking  her  own  thoughts, 
not  Amos's,  Raker  decided. 

"  Partly  on  account  of  the  dog,"  said  Amos. 
"First  thing  Sol  said  when  they  took  him  up 
was,  'Johnny's  dog's  hurt  too';  and  true  enough 
we  found  him  (for  I  was  round)  crawling  down 
the  street  with  a  stab  in  him.  Now,  I  says, 
here's  a  test  right  at  hand  ;  if  the  dog  was 
stabbed  by  this  young  feller  he'll  tell  of  it  when 
he  sees  him,  and  I  fetched  him  right  up  to  Sol ; 
but,  bless  my  soul,  the  dog  kinder  wagged  his 
tail !  And  he's  taken  to  Sol  from  the  first. 
Another  thing,  they  never  found  the  knife  that 
did  it ;  said  Sol  might  have  throwed  it  into  the 
river.  Tommy  rot ! — I  mean  it  ain't  likely.  Sol 
wasn't  in  no  condition  to  throw  a  knife  a  block 
or  two  !" 

"  But  if  not  he,  who  else  ?"  said  Ruth. 

Amos  was  at  a  loss  to  answer  her  exactly,  and 
yet  in  language  that  he  considered  suitable  "to 
a  nice  young  lady ";  but  be  managed  to  convey 


THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 


to  her  an  idea  of  the  villanous  locality  where  the 
unfortunate  policeman  met  his  death  ;  and  he  told 
her  that  from  the  first,  judging  by  the  character 
of  the  blow  ("no  American  man — a  decent  man 
too,  like  Sol — would  have  jabbed  a  man  from 
behind  that  way;  that's  a  Dago  blow,  with  a 
Dago  knife  !"),  he  had  suspected  a  certain  Ital 
ian  woman,  who  "  boarded  "  in  the  house  beneath 
whose  evil  walls  the  man  was  slain.  He  suspected 
her  because  Johnny  had  arrested  "a  great  friend 
of  hers"  who  turned  out  to  be  "wanted/' and  in 
the  end  was  sent  to  the  penitentiary,  and  the 
woman  had  sworn  revenge.  "That's  all,"  said 
Amos,  "except  that  when  I  looked  her  up,  she 
had  skipped.  I  have  a  good  man  shadowing  her, 
though,  and  he  has  found  her." 

"And  that  was  what  convinced  you  ?" 

"That  and  the  man  himself.  Suppose  we 
take  a  look  at  him.  Then  I'll  have  to  go  to 
Des  Moines.  I  suspected  this  would  come,  and 
I'm  all  ready." 

So  the  toilet  was  for  the  Governor  and  not  for 
her;  Ruth  took  shame  to  herself  for  a  full 
minute  while  Raker  was  speaking.  Amos's  de 
jection  came  from  a  cause  worthy  of  such  a  man 
as  he.  Perhaps  all  her  fancies.  .  .  . 

"That  will  suit,"  Raker  was  saying.  "He 
lias  been  asking  for  you.  I  told  him." 


THE   DEFEAT   OF   AMOS   WICKLIFF  229 

"Thank  you,  Joe/'  said  Amos,  gratefully. 

"  I  don't  propose  to  leave  all  the  dirty  jobs  to 
you,"  growled  Raker.  And  he  added  under  his 
breath  to  Ruth,  when  Amos  had  stopped  behind 
to  strap  a  bag,  "Amos  is  going  to  take  it  hard." 

He  led  the  way,  through  a  stone-flagged  hall, 
where  the  air  wafted  the  unrefreshing  cleanli 
ness  of  carbolic  acid  and  lime,  up  a  stone  and 
iron  staircase  worn  by  what  hundreds  of  lagging 
feet !  past  grated  windows  through  which  how 
many  feverish  eyes  had  been  mocked  by  the 
brilliant  western  sky  !  past  narrow  doors  and  the 
laughter  and  oaths  of  rascaldom  in  the  corridor, 
into  an  absolutely  silent  hall  blocked  by  an  iron- 
barred  door.  There  Raker  paused  to  fit  a  key 
in  the  lock,  and  on  his  commonplace,  florid 
features  dawned  a  curious  solemnity.  Ruth 
found  herself  breathing  more  quickly. 

The  door  swung  inward.  Ruth's  first  sensa 
tion  was  a  sort  of  relief,  the  room  looked  so  little 
like  a  cell,  with  its  bright  chintz  on  the  bed 
and  the  mass  of  nosegays  on  the  table.  A  black- 
and-tan  terrier  bounded  off  the  bed  and  gam 
bolled  joyously  over  Amos's  feet. 

' '  Here's  the  sheriff  and  a  lady  to  see  you,  Sol," 
Raker  announced. 

The  prisoner  came  forward  eagerly,  holding 
out  his  hand.  All  three  shook  it.  He  was  a 


230  THE    MISSIONARY   SHERIFF 

short,  cleanly  built  man,  who  held  his  chin 
slightly  uplifted  as  he  talked.  His  reddish- 
brown  hair  was  strewn  over  a  high  white  fore 
head  ;  its  disorder  did  not  tally  with  the  neat 
ness  of  his  Sunday  suit,  which,  they  told  Ruth 
afterwards,  he  had  worn  ever  since  his  convic 
tion,  although  previously  he  had  been  particular 
to  wear  his  working-clothes.  Ruth's  eyes  were 
drawn  by  an  uncanny  attraction,  stronger  than 
her  will,  to  the  face  of  a  man  in  such  a  tremen 
dous  situation.  His  skin  was  fair  and  freckled, 
and  had  the  prison  pallor,  face  and  hands.  But 
the  feature  that  impressed  Ruth  was  his  eyes. 
They  were  of  a  clear,  grayish-blue  tint,  meeting 
the  gaze  directly,  without  self-consciousness  or 
bravado,  and  innocent  as  a  child's.  Such  eyes 
are  not  unfrequent  among  working-men,  but  the 
rest  of  us  have  learned  to  hide  behind  the  glass. 
He  did  not  look  like  a  man  who  knew  that  he 
must  die  in  three  days.  He  was  smiling.  Look 
ing  closer,  however,  Ruth  saw  that  his  eyelids 
were  red,  and  she  observed  that  his  fingers  were 
tapping  the  balls  of  his  thumbs  continually. 

' '  I'm  real  glad  to  see  you,"  he  said.  "  Won't 
you  set  down  ?  Poker,  you  let  the  lady  alone  " 
— addressing  the  dog.  "He's  just  playful;  he 
won't  bite.  Mr.  Wickliff  lets  me  have  him 
here  ;  he  was  Johnny's  dog,  and  he's  company 


THE   DEFEAT   OF   AMOS   WICKLIFF  231 

to  me.  He  likes  it.  They  let  him  out  when 
ever  he  wants,  you  know."  '  His  eyes  for  a 
second  passed  the  faces  before  him  and  lingered 
on  the  bare  branches  of  the  maple  swaying  be 
tween  his  window  grating  and  the  sky.  Was  he 
thinking  that  he  would  see  the  trees  but  once, 
on  one  terrible  journey  ? 

Raker  blew  his  nose  violently. 

"Well,  Fm  off  to  Des  Moines,  Sol,"  said  Amos. 

"  Yes,  sir.  And  about  Elly  going  ?  I  don't 
want  her  to  go  to  all  that  expense  if  it  won't  do 
no  good.  I  want  to  leave  her  all  the  money  I 
can—" 

"You  never  mind  about  the  money."  Amos 
took  the  words  off  his  tongue  with  friendly  gruff- 
ness.  "But  she  better  wait  till  we  see  how  I 
git  along.  Maybe  there'll  be  no  necessity." 

"  It's  a  kinder  long  journey  for  a  young  lady," 
said  Joscelyn,  anxiously,  "  and  it's  so  hard  get 
ting  word  of  those  big  folks,  and  I  hate  to  think 
of  her  having  to  hang  round.  Elly's  so  timid 
like,  and  maybe  somebody  not  being  polite  to 
her—" 

"Til  attend  to  all  that,  Joscelyn.  She  shall 
go  in  a  Pullman,  and  everything  will  be  fixed." 

"  Can  you  git  passes  ?  You  are  doing  a  ter 
rible  lot  of  things  for  me,  Mr.  Wickliff  ;  and  Mr. 
Raker  too,  and  his  good  lady "  (with  a  grateful 


232  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

glance  at  Raker,  who  rocked  in  the  rocking-chair 
and  was  lapped  *in  gloom).  "It  does  seem  like 
you  folks  here  are  awful  kind  to  folks  in  trouble, 
and  if  I  ever  git  out — "  He  was  not  equal  to 
the  rest  of  the  sentence,  but  Amos  covered  his 
faltering  with  a  brisk — 

"That's  all  right.  Say,  'ain't  yon  got  some 
new  flowers  ?" 

Joscelyn  smiled.  "  Those  are  from  the  boys 
over  to  the  mill.  Ten  of  them  boys  was  over  to 
see  me  Sunday,  no  three  knowing  the  others  were 
coming.  I  tell  you  when  a  man  gits  into  trouble 
he  finds  out  about  his  friends.  I  got  awful  good 
friends.  The  roller  sent  me  that  box  of  cigars. 
And  there's  one  little  feller — he  works  on  the 
hot-bed,  one  of  them  kids — and  he  walked  all  the 
six  miles,  'cross  the  bridge  and  all,  'cause  he 
didn't  have  money  for  the  fare.  Why  he  didn't 
have  money,  he'd  spent  it  all  in  boot-jack  to 
bacco  and  a  rosy  apple  for  me.  He's  a  real  nice 
little  boy.  If — if  things  was  to  go  bad  with  me, 
would  you  kinder  have  an  eye  on  Hughey,  Mr. 
Wickliff  ?" 

Amos  rose  rather  hastily.  "Well,  I  guess  I 
got  to  go  now,  Sol." 

Euth  noticed  that  Sol  got  the  sheriff's  big  hand 
in  both  his  as  he  said,  "  I  guess  you  know  how 
I  feel  'bout  what  you  and  Mr.  Raker — "  This 


THE  FAREWELL 


THE  DEFEAT   OF   AMOS  WICKLIFF'-  233 

time  he  conld  not  go  on,  his  mouth  twitched, 
and  he  brushed  the  back  of  his  hand  across  his 
eyes.  Ruth  saw  that  the  palm  had  a  great  white 
welt  on  it,  and  that  the  sinews  were  stiffened, 
preventing  the  fingers  from  opening  wide.  She 
spoke  then.  She  held  out  her  own  hand. 

"  I  know  you  didn't  do  it,"  said  she,  very  de 
liberately  ;  ' '  and  I'm  sure  we  shall  get  you  free 
again.  Don't  stop  hoping  !  Don't  you  stop  one 
minute  !" 

"  I  guess  I  can't  say  anything  better  than 
that,"  said  Amos.  In  this  fashion  they  got 
away. 

Amos  did  not  part  his  lips  until  they  were 
back  in  his  own  parlor,  where  he  spoke.  "  Did 
you  notice  his  hand  ?" 

Ruth  had  noticed  it. 

"  A  man  who  saw  the  accident  that  gave  him 
those  scars  told  me  about  it.  It  happened  two 
years  ago.  Sol  had  his  spell  at  the  roll,  and  he 
was  strolling  about,  and  happened  to  fetch  up  at 
the  finishing  shears,  where  a  boy  was  straighten 
ing  the  red-hot  iron  bars.  I  don't  know  exactly 
how  it  happened ;  some  way  the  iron  caught  on 
a  joint  of  the  bed-plates  and  jumped  at  him, 
red-hot.  He  didn't  get  out  of  the  way  quick 
enough.  It  went  right  through  his  leg  and 
curved  up,  and  down  he  dropped  with  the  iron 


234  THE    MISSIONARY   SHERIFF 

in  him.  Near  the  femoral  artery,  they  said,  too; 
and  it  would  have  burned  the  walls  of  the  artery 
down,  and  he  would  have  bled  to  death  in  a  flash. 
Sol  Joscelyn  saw  him.  He  looked  round  for 
something  to  take  hold  of  that  iron  with  that 
was  smoking  and  charring,  but  there  wasn't  any 
thing — the  boy's  tongs  had  gone  between  the 
rails  when  he  fell.  So  he — he  took  his  hands 
and  pulled  the  red-hot  thing  out !  That's  how 
both  his  hands  are  scarred." 

"  Oh,  the  poor  fellow !"  said  Euth  ;  "  and 
think  of  him  here  !" 

Amos  shook  his  head  and  strode  to  the  win 
dow.  Then  he  came  back  to  her,  where  she 
was  trying  to  swallow  the  pain  in  the  roof  of  her 
mouth.  He  stretched  his  great  hands  in  front 
of  him.  ' '  How  could  I  ever  look  at  them  again 
if  they  pulled  that  lever  ?"  he  sobbed— for  the 
words  were  a  sob  ;  and  immediately  he  flung 
himself  back  to  the  window  again. 

"Amos,  I  know  they  won't  hang  him  ;  why, 
they  can't.  If  the  Governor  could  only  see  him." 
Euth  was  standing,  and  her  face  was  flushed. 
"Why,  Amos,  /  thought  maybe  he  might  be 
guilty  until  I  saw  him  !  I  know  the  Governor 
won't  see  him,  but  if  we  told  him  about  the  poor 
fellow,  if  we  tried  to  make  him  see  him  as  we 
do?" 


THE  DEFEAT  OP  AMOS  WICKLIFF         235 

Amos  drearily  shook  his  head.  "The  Govern 
or  is  a  just  man,  Ruth,  but  he  is  hard  as  nuts. 
Sentiment  won't  go  down  with  him.  Besides, 
he  is  a  great  friend  of  Frank  Woods,  who  has  got 
his  back  up  and  isn't  going  to  let  me  pull  his 
prisoner  out.  Of  course  he's  given  his  side." 

"  The  girl — this  Elly  ?  If  she  were  to  see  the 
Governor  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  whether  she'd  do  harm  or  not. 
She's  a  nice  little  thing,  and  has  stood  by  Sol 
like  a  lady.  But  it's  a  toss  up  if  she  wouldn't 
break  down  and  lose  her  head  utterly.  She 
comes  to  see  him  as  often  as  she  can,  always 
bringing  him  some  little  thing  or  other  ;  and 
she  sits  and  holds  his  hand  and  cries  —  never 
seems  to  say  three  words.  Whenever  she  runs 
up  against  me  she  makes  a  bow  and  says,  '  I'm. 
very  much  obliged  to  you,  sir,'  and  looks  scared 
to  death.  /  don't  know  who  to  get  to  go  with 
her;  her  mother  keeps  a  working-man's  board 
ing-house  ;  she's  a  good  soul,  but — " 

He  dropped  his  head  on  his  hand  and  seemed 
to  try  to  think. 

It  was  strange  to  Ruth  that  she  should  long  to 
go  up  to  him  and  touch  his  smooth  black  hair, 
yet  such  a  crazy  fancy  did  flit  through  her  brain. 
When  she  thought  that  he  was  suffering  because 
of  her,  she  had  not  been  moved  ;  but  now  that 


236  THE    MISSIONARY   SHERIFF 

he  was  so  sorely  straitened  for  a  man  who  was 
nothing  to  him  more  than  a  human  creature,  her 
heart  ached  to  comfort  him. 

"No,"  said  Amos;  "we've  got  to  work  the 
other  strings.  Fve  got  some  pull,  and  I'll  work 
that;  then  the  newspaper  boys  have  helped  me 
out,  and  folks  are  getting  sorry  for  Sol;  there 
wouldn't  be  any  clamor  against  it,  and  we've  got 
some  evidence.  I'm  not  worth  shucks  as  a  talk 
er,  but  I'll  take  a  talker  with  me.  If  there  was 
only  somebody  to  keep  her  straight — " 

"  Would  you  trust  me  ?"  said  Euth.  "  If  you 
will,  I'll  go  with  her  to-morrow. " 

Amos's  eyes  went  from  his  mother's  picture  to 
the  woman  with  the  pale  face  and  the  lustrous 
eyes  beneath  it.  He  felt  as  stirred  by  love  and 
reverence  and  the  longing  to  worship  as  ever 
mediaeval  knight  ;  he  wanted  to  kneel  and  kiss 
the  hem  of  her  gown ;  what  he  did  do  was  to 
open  his  mouth,  gasp  once  or  twice,  and  finally 
say,  "  Ruth,  you — you  are  as  good  as  they  make 


Amos  went,  and  the  instant  that  he  was  gone, 
Euth,  attending  to  her  own  scheme  of  salvation, 
crossed  the  river.  She  entered  the  office  of  the 
steel-works,  where  the  officers  gave  her  full  in 
formation  about  the  character  of  Sol  Joscelyn. 


THE   DEFEAT   OF   AMOS   WICKLIFF  237 

He  was  a  good  fellow  and  a  good  workman,  al 
ways  ready  to  work  an  extra  turn  to  help  a  fel 
low-workman.  She  went  to  his  landlady,  who 
was  Elly's  mother,  and  heard  of  his  sober  and 
blameless  life.  "  And  indeed,  miss,  I  know  of  a 
certainty  he  never  did  git  drunk  but  once  before, 
and  that  was  after  his  mother's  funeral ;  and  she 
was  bedfast  for  ten  years,  and  he  kep'  her  like  a 
lady,  with  a  hired  girl,  he  did;  and  he  come  home 
to  the  dark  house,  and  he  couldn't  bear  it,  and 
went  back  to  the  boys,  and  they,  meaning  well, 
but  foolish,  like  boys,  told  him  to  forget  the 
grief."  Euth  went  back  to  Sol's  mill,  between 
heats,  to  seek  Sol's  young  friend.  She  found 
the  "real  nice  little  boy"  with  a  huge  quid  in 
his  cheek,  and  his  fists  going  before  the  face  of 
another  small  lad  who  had  "told  the  roller  lies." 
He  cocked  a  shrewd  and  unchildish  blue  eye  at 
Euth,  and  skilfully  sent  his  quid  after  the  flying 
tale-bearer.  "  Sol  Joscelyn  ?  Course  I  know 
him.  He's  a  friend  of  mine.  Give  me  coffee 
outer  his  pail  first  day  I  got  here  ;  lets  me  take 
his  tongs.  Fm  goin'  to  be  a  rougher  too,  you 
bet ;  I'm  a-learnin'.  He's  the  daisiest  rougher, 
he  is.  It's  grand  to  see  him  ketch  them  white- 
hot  bars  that's  jest  a-drippin',  and  chuck  'em 
under  like  they  was  kindling-wood.  He's  licked 
my  old  man,  too,  for  haulin'  me  round  by  the 


THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 


ear.  He  ain't  my  own  father,  so  I  didn't  inter 
fere.  Say,  you  goin'  to  see  Sol  to-night  ?  You 
can  give  him  things,  can't  you  ?  I  got  a  mince- 
pie  for  him." 

Kuth  consented  to  take  the  pie,  and  she  did 
not  know  whether  to  laugh  or  cry  when,  examin 
ing  the  crust,  she  discovered,  cunningly  stowed 
away  among  the  raisins  and  citron,  a  tiny  file. 

When  she  told  Sol,  he  did  not  seem  surprised. 
"He's  always  a -sending  of  them/'  said  he; 
"most  times  Mr.  Eaker  finds 'em,  but  once  he 
got  one  inside  a  cigar,  and  I  bit  my  teeth  on  it. 
He  thinks  if  he  can  jest  git  a  file  to  me  it's  all 
right.  I  s'pose  he  reads  sech  things  in  books." 

Amos  went  to  Des  Moines  of  a  Monday  after 
noon  ;  Tuesday  night  he  walked  through  the  jail 
gate  with  his  head  down,  as  no  one  had  ever  seen 
the  sheriff  walk  before.  He  kept  his  eye  on  the 
sodden,  frozen  grass  and  the  ice-varnished  bricks 
of  the  walk,  which  glittered  under  the  electric 
lights ;  it  was  cruelty  enough  to  have  to  hear 
that  dizzy  ring  of  hammers  ;  he  would  not  see  ; 
but  all  at  once  he  recoiled  and  stepped  over  the 
sharp  black  shadow  of  a  beam.  But  he  had  his 
composure  ready  for  Eaker. 

"Well !— he  wouldn't  listen  to  you  ?" 

"  No ;  he  listened,  but  I  couldn't  move  him, 


THE   DEFEAT   OP   AMOS  WICKLIFF  239 

nor  Dennison  couldn't,  either.  He's  honest 
about  it ;  he  thinks  Sol  is  guilty,  and  an  example 
is  needed.  Finally  I  told  him  I  would  resign 
rather  than  hang  an  innocent  man.  He  said 
Woods  had  another  man  ready.'' 

"  That  will  be  a  blow  to  Sol.  I  told  him  you 
would  attend  to  everything.  He  said  he'd  risk 
another  man  if  it  would  make  you  feel  bad — " 

"  I  won't  risk  another  man,  then.  But  the 
Governor  called  my  bluff.  Where's  Miss  Graves  ?" 

"  Gone  to  Des  Moines  with  Elly.  Went  next 
train  after  your  telegram." 

"And  Mrs.  Smith?" 

"  She's  in  reading  the  Bible  to  Sol.  I  don't 
know  whether  it's  doing  him  any  good  or  not ;  he 
says  '  Yes,  ma'am,'  and  '  That's  right '  to  every 
question  she  asks  him  ;  but  I  guess  some  of  it's 
politeness.  And  he  seems  kinder  nighty,  and 
his  mind  runs  from  one  thing  to  another.  But 
he  says  he's  still  hoping.  He's  made  a  list  of  all 
his  things  to  give  away ;  and  he's  said  good-bye 
to  the  newspaper  boys.  I  never  supposed  that 
youngest  one  had  any  feeling,  but  I  had  to  give 
him  four  fingers  of  whiskey  after  he  come  out ; 
he  was  white's  the  wall,  and  he  hadn't  a  word  to 
say.  It's  been  a  terrible  day,  Amos.  My  wom 
an's  jest  all  broke  up  ;  she  wanted  me  to  make  a 
rope-ladder.  Me  !  Said  she  and  old  Lady  Smith 


THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 


would  hide  him.  'Polly/  says  I,  'I  know  my 
duty ;  and  if  I  didn't,  Amos  knows  his.'  She 
'ain't  spoke  to  me  since,  and  we  had  a  picked-up 
dinner.  Well,  /  can't  eat !" 

"  You  best  not  drink  much  either,  then,  Joe," 
said  Amos,  kindly  ;  and  he  went  his  ways.  Dark 
and  painful  ways  they  were  that  night  :  but  he 
never  flinched.  And  the  carpenters  on  the 
ghastly  machine  without  the  gate  (the  shadow 
of  which  lay,  all  night  through,  on  Amos's  cur 
tain)  said  to  each  other,  "The  sheriff  looks  sick, 
but  he  ain't  going  to  take  any  chances !" 

The  day  came— Sol's  last  day — and  there  were 
a  hundred  demands  for  Amos's  decision.  In  the 
morning  he  made  his  last  stroke  for  the  pris 
oner.  He  told  Raker  about  it.  "  I  found  the 
tool  at  last,"  he  said,  "in  the  place  you  sus 
pected.  Dago  dagger.  I've  expressed  it  to  Miss 
Graves  and  telegraphed  her.  It's  in  her  hands 
now." 

"  Sol  says  he  'ain't  quit  hoping,"  says  Eaker. 
"  Say,  the  blizzard  flag  is  out ;  you  don't  think 
you  could  put  it  off  for  weather,  being  an  out 
door  thing,  you  know  ?" 

"No,"  says  Amos,  knitting  his  black  brows; 
"I  know  my  duty." 

Towards  night,  in  one  of  his  many  visits  to  the 
condemned  man,  Sol  said,  "Elly  '11  be  sure  to 


THE   DEFEAT    OP   AMOS   WICKLIFF  241 

come  back  from  Des  Moines  in — in  time,  if  she 
don't  succeed,  won't  she  ?" 

"  Oh,  sure,"  said  Amos,  cheerfully.  He  spoke 
in  a  louder  than  common  voice  when  he  was 
with  Sol;  he  fought  against  an  inclination  to 
walk  on  tiptoe,  as  he  saw  Raker  and  the  watch 
doing.  He  wished  Sol  would  not  keep  hold  of 
his  hand  so  long  each  time  they  shook  hands ; 
but  he  found  his  hands  going  out  whenever  he 
entered  the  room.  He  had  a  feeling  at  his  heart 
as  if  a  string  were  tightening  about  it  and  cut 
ting  into  it :  shaking  hands  seemed  to  loosen 
the  string.  From  Sol,  Amos  went  down-stairs 
to  the  telephone  to  call  up  the  depot.  The  elec 
tricity  snapped  and  roared  and  buzzed,  and  baf 
fled  his  ears,  but  he  made  out  that  the  Des 
Moines  train  had  come  in  two  hours  late ;  the 
morning  train  was  likely  to  be  later,  for  a  storm 
was  raging  and  the  telegraph  lines  were  down. 
Elly  hadn't  come ;  she  couldn't  come  in  time  ! 
Amos  changed  the  call  to  the  telegraph  office. 

Yes,  they  had  a  telegram  for  him.  Just  re 
ceived  ;  been  ever  since  noon  getting  there. 
From  Des  Moines.  Read  it  ? 

The  sheriff  gripped  the  receiver  and  flung 
back  his  shoulders  like  a  soldier  facing  the  fir 
ing-squad.  The  words  penetrated  the  whir  like 
bullets  :  "  Des  Moines,  December  8,  189-.  Gov- 

16 


242  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

ernor  refused  audience.     Has  left  the  city.     My 
sympathy  and  indignation.     T.  L.  Dennison." 

Amos  remembered  to  put  the  tube  up,  to  ring 
the  bell.  He  walked  out  of  the  office  into  the 
parlor ;  he  was  not  conscious  that  he  walked  on 
tiptoe  or  that  he  moved  the  arm-chair  softly  as 
if  to  avoid  making  a  noise.  He  sank  back  into 
the  great  leather  depths  and  stared  dully  about 
him.  "They've  called  my  bluff !"  he  whispered  ; 
"there  isn't  anything  left  I  can  do."  He  could 
not  remember  that  he  had  ever  been  in  a  simi 
lar  situation,  because,  although  he  had  had  many 
a  buffet  and  some  hard  falls  from  life,  never  had 
he  been  at  the  end  of  his  devices  or  his  obsti 
nate  courage.  But  now  there  was  nothing,  noth 
ing  to  be  done. 

"By -and -by  I  will  go  and  tell  Sol/'  he 
thought,  in  a  dull  way.  No  ;  he  would  let  him 
hope  a  little  longer  ;  the  morning  would  be  time 
enough.  ...  He  looked  down  at  his  own  hands, 
and  a  shudder  contracted  the  muscles  of  his 
neck,  and  his  teeth  met. 

"Brace  up,  you  coward !"  he  adjured  himself ; 
but  the  pith  was  gone  out  of  his  will.  That 
which  he  had  thought,  looking  at  his  hands, 
was  that  she  would  never  want  to  touch  them 
again.  Amos's  love  was  very  humble.  He  knew 
that  Ruth  did  not  love  him.  Why  should  she  ? 


THE  DEFEAT  OP   AMOS  WICKLIFP  243 

Like  all  true  lovers  in  the  dawn  of  the  New 
Day,,  he  was  absorbed  in  his  gratitude  to  her  for 
the  power  to  love.  There  is  nothing  so  beauti 
ful,  so  exciting,  so  infinitely  interesting,  as  to 
love.  To  be  loved  is  a  pale  experience  beside  it, 
being,  indeed,  but  the  mirror  to  love,  without 
which  love  may  never  find  its  beauty,  yet  hold 
ing,  of  its  own  right,  neither  beauty  nor  charm. 
Amos  'had  accepted  Ruth's  kindness,  her  sym 
pathy,  her  goodness,  as  he  accepted  the  way  her 
little  white  teeth  shone  in  her  smile,  and  the 
lovely  depths  of  her  eyes,  and  the  crisp  melody 
of  her  voice — as  windfalls  of  happiness,  his  by 
kind  chance  or  her  goodness,  not  for  any  merit 
of  his  own.  He  was  grateful,  and  he  did  not 
presume ;  he  had  only  come  so  far  as  to  wonder 
whether  he  ever  would  dare —  But  now  he  only 
asked  to  be  her  friend  and  servant.  But  to  have 
her  shrink  from  him,  to  have  his  presence  odi 
ous  to  her  ...  he  did  not  know  how  to  bear 
it !  And  there  was  no  way  out.  Not  only  the 
State  held  him,  the  wish  of  the  helpless,  trust 
ing  creature  that  he  had  failed  to  save  was 
stronger  than  any  law  of  man.  He  thought  of 
Mrs.  Raker  and  her  foolish  schemes  :  that  wom 
an  didn't  understand  how  a  man  felt.  But  all 
of  a  sudden  he  found  himself  getting  up  and  go 
ing  quickly  to  his  father's  picture ;  and  he  was 


244  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

saying  out  loud  to  the  painted  soldier  :  "  I  know 
my  duty  !  I  know  my  duty  !"  Without,  the  snow 
was  driving  against  the  window-pane  ;  that  ac 
cursed  Thing  creaked  and  swayed  under  the  flail 
of  the  wind,  but  kept  its  stature.  Within,  the 
tumult  and  combat  in  a  human  soul  was  so  fierce 
that  only  at  long  intervals  did  the  storm  beat  its 
way  to  his  consciousness.  Once,  stopping  his 
walk,  he  listened  and  heard  sobs,  arid  a  gentle 
old  voice  that  he  knew  in  a  solemn,  familiar  mo 
notony  of  tone ;  and  he  was  aware  that  the  wom 
en  were  in  the  other  room  weeping  and  pray 
ing.  And  up-stairs  Sol,  who  had  never  done  a 
mean  trick  in  his  life,  and  been  content  with  so 
little,  and  tried  to  share  all  he  got,  was  waiting 
for  the  sweetheart  who  never  could  come,  turn 
ing  that  pitiful  smile  of  his  to  the  door  every 
time  the  wind  rattled  it,  "trying  to  hope  !" 

He  had  not  shed  a  tear  for  his  own  misery, 
but  now  he  leaned  his  arm  on  the  frame  of  his 
mother's  portrait  and  sobbed.  He  was  standing 
thus  when  Kuth  saw  him,  when  she  flashed  up 
to  him,  cold  and  wet  and  radiant. 

She  was  too  breathless  to  speak  ;  but  she  did 
not  need  to  speak. 

"You've  got  it,  Kuth  I"  he  cried.  "0  God, 
you've  got  the  reprieve  !" 

"Yes,  I  have,  Amos;  here  it  is.     I  couldn't 


THE   DEFEAT  OP  AMOS  WICKLIFP  245 

telegraph  because  the  wires  were  down,  but  the 
Governor  and  the  railroad  superintendent  fixed 
it  so  we  could  come  on  an  engine.  I  knew  you 
were  suffering.  Elly  is  with  Mother  Smith  and 
Mrs.  Raker,  but  I  — but  I  wanted  to  come  to 
you." 

If  he  had  thought  once  of  himself  he  must 
have  heard  the  new  note  in  her  voice.  But  he 
did  not  think  once  of  himself  ;  he  could  only 
think  of  Sol. 

"But  the  Governor,  didn't  he  refuse  to  see 
you  ?"  said  he. 

"No;  he  refused  to  see  poor  Mr.  Dennison." 
Ruth  used  the  slighting  pity  of  the  successful. 
"  We  didn't  try  to  go  to  him  ;  we  went  to  his 
wife." 

Amos  sat  down.  "  Ruth/'  he  said,  solemnly, 
"you  haven't  got  talent,  you've  got  genius !" 

"Why,  of  course,"  said  Ruth,  "he  might  snub 
us  and  not  listen  to  us,  but  he  would  have  to 
listen  to  his  wife.  She  is  such  a  pretty  lady, 
Amos,  and  so  kind.  We  had  a  little  bit  of 
trouble  seeing  her  at  first,  because  the  girl  (who 
was  all  dressed  up,  like  the  pictures,  in  a  black 
dress  and  white  collar  and  cuffs  and  the  nicest 
long  apron),  she  said  that  we  couldn't  come  in, 
the  Governor's  wife  was  engaged,  and  they  were 
going  out  of  town  that  day.  But  when  Elly  began 


246  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

to  talk  to  her  she  sympathized  at  once,  and  she 
got  the  Governor's  wife  down.  Then  I  told  her 
all  about  Sol  and  how  good  he  was,  and  I  cried 
and  Elly  cried  and  she  cried — we  all  cried — and 
she  said  that  I  should  see  the  Governor,  and 
gave  us  tea.  She  was  as  kind  as  possible.  And 
when  the  Governor  came  I  told  him  everything 
about  Sol — about  his  mother  and  the  little  boy 
at  the  mill  and  the  dog,  and  how  he  saved  the 
other  boy,  pulling  out  that  big  iron  bar  red- 
hot—" 

"  But,"  interrupted  Amos,  who  would  have 
been  literal  on  his  death-bed — "but  it  wasn't  a 
very  big  bar.  Not  the  bar  they  begin  with — a 
finished  bar,  just  ready  for  the  shears." 

"Never  mind  ;  it  was  big  when  I  told  it,  and 
I  assure  you  it  impressed  the  Governor.  He  got 
up  and  walked  the  floor,  and  then  Elly  threw 
herself  on  her  knees  before  him  ;  and  he  pulled 
her  up,  and,  don't  you  know,  not  exactly  laughed, 
but  something  like  it.  'I  can't  make  out,'  said 
he,  '  from  your  description  much  about  the  guilt 
or  innocence  of  Solomon  Joscelyn,  but  one  thing 
is  plain,  that  he  is  too  good  a  fellow  to  be 
hanged !' " 

"And  did  you  take  the  dagger  I  sent,  and  my 
telegram  ?" 

"Your  telegram?     Dagger?     Amos,  I'm  so 


THE   DEFEAT   OP   AMOS   WICKLIFP  247 

sorry,  but  we  didn't  go  back  to  our  lodgings  at 
all.  We  had  our  bags  with  us,  and  came  right 
from  the  Governor's  here  !" 

"  Then  you  didn't  say  anything  about  evi 
dence  ?" 

"Evidence?"  Kuth  looked  distressed.  "Oh, 
Amos  !  I  forgot  all  about  it  !" 

Amos  always  supposed  that  he  must  have 
been  beside  himself,  for  he  caught  her  hand  and 
kissed  it,  and  cried,  "  You  darling  !"  Nothing 
more,  not  a  word  ;  and  he  went  abjectly  down 
on  his  knees  before  her  chair  and  apologized, 
until,  frightened  by  her  silence,  he  looked  up— 
and  saw  Ruth's  eyes. 

After  all,  the  evidence  was  not  at  all  wasted  ; 
for  the  Italian  woman,  thanks  to  a  cunning  use 
of  the  dagger,  made  a  full  confession ;  and,  the 
public  wrath  having  been  sated  on  Sol,  a  more 
merciful  jury  sent  the  real  assassin  to  a  lunatic 
asylum,  which  pleased  Amos,  who  was  not  cer 
tain  whether  he  had  not  stepped  from  one  hot 
box  into  another.  Ruth  told  Amos,  when  he 
asked  her  the  inevitable  question  of  the  lover, 
"  I  don't  know  when  exactly,  dear,  but  I  think 
I  began  to  love  you  when  I  saw  you  cry  ;  and  I 
was  sure  of  it  when  I  found  I  could  help  you  !" 

Honest  Amos  did  not  analyze  his  wife's  heart ; 


248  THE    MISSIONARY    SHERIFF 

he  was  content  to  accept  her  affection  as  the 
gift  of  God  and  her,  and  his  gratitude  included 
Sol  and  Elly ;  wherefore  it  comes  to  pass  that  a 
certain  iron-worker,  on  a  certain  day  in  Decem 
ber,  always  dines  with  Amos  Wickliff,  his  wife, 
and  Mother  Smith.  Amos  is  no  longer  sheriff, 
but  a  citizen  of  substance  and  of  higher  office, 
and  they  live  in  what  Mother  Smith  fears  is  al 
most  sinful  luxury ;  and  on  this  day  there  will 
be  served  a  dinner  yielding  not  to  Christmas 
itself  in  state  ;  and  after  dinner  the  rougher  will 
rise,  his  wineglass  in  hand.  "  To  our  wives !"  he 
will  say,  solemnly. 

And  Amos,  as  solemnly,  will  repeat  the  toast : 
"  To  our  wives  !     Thank  God  I" 


THE    END 


FOURTEEN  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DBSK  FKOM  WHICH  BORROWED 


to  immediate  recall. 


LD  21-100w-2,'55 
(Bl39s22)476 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


YB 


822588 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


